Paradox
by Kristen999
Summary: Paradox. A statement contrary to received opinion. Lingering fallouts. Missed opportunities. A violent case. Grissom and Nick's friendship is put to the test in murder that is more than it seems. Conclusion Up
1. Chapter 1

Title: Paradox

Author: Kristen999

Category: Drama/ Case File/ Angst

Rating: R

Spoilers: Through Season 6. Post "Daddy's Little Girl"

Disclaimer: All rights belong to CBS and all their fine writers. Please don't sue. This is just for fun.

Summary: 'Par-a-dox'- A statement contrary to received opinion. Lingering fallouts. Missed opportunities. A violent case. Grissom and Nick's friendship is put to the test in murder that is more than it seems.

Notes : This is character study of season 6. A large does of casefile, helpings of introspection, and a lot of angst. This is dense, but I hope you'll tag-along enough to enjoy the ride. This has been very challenging to say the least. Feedback welcome, just keep in mind that that I'm dealing with characters who have been shifting all over the canon map. My take on it all.

* * *

The walk through the lobby of the Reynolds Institute was oddly surreal. The front walls were made up of large panels of glass. Low lighting illuminated the entrance as the swishing sound of the automatic doors closed behind them. The excitement of the outside was muted, while the heavy dread of the atmosphere inside weighed down on their shoulders. Both ID badges were a one-way ticket through the detectors and avoidance of a metal wand.

A loud sound buzzed from a machine as Nick went though, his weapon agitating the annoying device. A security guard waved both men in, by-passing tables and boxes for personal items to be stored. The hallways narrowed, now stark white painted walls, lights overly bright compared to the low-lit area of the lobby. Nick flexed his neck from side to side, his camera bouncing against his chest, his metallic kit hanging in his right hand. The halls reeked of bleach covered up by cheap air refreshener.

The corridor lead to a glass-enclosed area, almost like a cubbyhole. The occupant, a large balding man observed the two visitors seated behind the safety of his desk. Nick shook his head. "Another security checkpoint," he complained, annoyed at another delay.

Grissom turned his attention towards his comment, resting his case on the floor. "The first was for visitors, that are then directed to a different hallway and a common area for family and patients."

Nick's eyes flicked over in his boss's direction. "Just commenting on Fort Knox."

Grissom flashed his identification in front of the guard seated behind the two-way glass. He nodded, hitting another buzzer, the automatic door opening to allow the two CSIs to continue through.

"This is a private facility. They can have as much control over who comes in and out as they want," Grissom added, as they walked down the hall.

The colors of this section of the hospital morphed to a light tan, then a calm yellow. "It's still a prison to keep people from the outside. Except in here, you're too scary of a criminal even for the lawless," Nick responded as they continued deeper into the building.

Both CSIs came to a stop in front of large encompassing oak desk. Little gold plaque nametags lined the barrier almost like something at a bank. It was a blockade, with nowhere to roam. A wall to the right, small offices behind the stop point. Grissom looked around for some sort of escort, when he noticed Jim Brass near a set of elevators towards the left.

The gruff detective wandered over towards the duo, his eyes glancing around as he walked. "This place gives me the creeps. Definitely a one man stop for psychos R us," he remarked dryly.

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "The Reynolds Institute is a mental health care hospital that leads the country in research grants and the development of rehabilitation programs."

Jim snorted. "Yeah, well, this house of freaks is also the biggest hospital for some of the most violent offenders, whose rich family ties has kept some of the esteemed from behind real bars."

"Some people don't belong in prison, Jim," Grissom rebuked tiredly.

"Well, Gil, I doubt some of these buckaroos know what planet they're on anyway."

Nick cleared his throat before looking straight at the older man. "So, what do we got?"

Jim Brass let out a low sigh. "Scene's on the third floor. A real mess. A Doctor Steve Kincaid was in the middle of group therapy when it seems his entourage of merry men went nuts, no pun intended. Body's a freakin' mess, blood everywhere, and all over the four suspects."

Grissom looked at his watch in an exaggerated fashion, brows knitted in disbelief. "Group therapy late at night?'

"Maybe it was reserved for the ones who thought they were vampires?" Brass quirked.

Grissom glared.

"Where are the inmates now?" Nick asked.

"They've been sedated and placed in a secured area of the infirmary. We're waiting for the head of this place to respond to our calls, so he can help figure out what the Hell happened."

Grissom wrinkled his face. "Dr. Kincaid was their primary physician?"

"The good doctor was one of two shrinks, overseeing all four guys' care."

Nick looked perplexed. "Awful lot of cooks."

Jim shrugged. "Well, not sure what's going on till the rest of the white coats show up and can give us some details about their kitchen"

"Coroner here?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, David got here just a little while ago. If you gentlemen want to follow me, I'll lead you to the chamber of horrors."

Grissom shook his head, and both criminalists followed suit to the elevator. Inside, Jim took out a note card and punched in a security code.

"That's peculiar," Nick noted of the extra precaution.

"Like I said, place is full of the sickest and most violent whackos."

The three men rode in silence as the arrived on the floor. When the doors slid open the temperature drop between floors was dramatic. The corridor was cast in darkness, except every three feet where a single red light flashed ominously.

Grissom looked up in annoyance. "You'd think they'd find someone to fix this."

Jim grumbled under his breath. "Yeah, some odd security response. Now all we need is the soundtrack to Halloween to accompany the mood."

Jim didn't hear Nick's soft snort.

Both CSIs approached the door, a jumpy officer straightening to attention at the group of men.

Nick and Grissom stood at the entranceway, taking in the room. David was in the corner scribbling notes.

There were five plastic chairs in various upturned positions on the floor. Each one was destroyed somehow; legs broken, the outer plastic covering bent and stained with blood. There was cast off and splatter that dotted the linoleum floor, trails going off in sporadic directions. The male victim was on his back, left arm bent in an awkward angle, his pristine lab coat soaked a bright crimson. The vic's shirt looked shredded; a puncture wound in his thigh, and a trail lead to a small pool of blood a few feet away. A pair of  
eyeglasses lay crushed in the middle of the room.

The most disturbing aspect of the body was the fact his head was crushed in. A piece of shattered skull poked out from under his scalp, brown hair matted with his own life's fluid, a dark pool beneath him. Nick kept his feet still as he self-consciously leaned forward; it was hard to detect a face at all with so much carnage. He'd seen worse, but this was definably blunt force trauma personified.

After scanning the room for objects that could have caused such damage, the younger criminalist spotted a demolished table to the side, one of the wooden legs missing. To the right, one of the cabinet's glass doors was shattered; pieces of debris littered the ground, with more red stickiness all over the dispersed pieces.

Nick steeled himself for a long night of canvassing. He looked over at his boss for instructions, biting down the instinct to begin on his own accord. Grissom seemed so focused, Nick felt like he was another shadow along the wall. Instead of waiting for an order he glanced at the young coroner.

"Dave, you have a preliminary COD?"

The MD seemed at a loss for words and settled for shaking his head. "Massive blood loss, or severe head trauma. Either of those right now. Won't know more till we get him on a slab. Time of death was about an hour ago."

Nick nodded, expecting as much. Grissom finally peered at him through his glasses. Nick beat him to the punch. "I'll do the sketch, gather and document the surrounding room."

Grissom was silent for a beat. "I'll go over the body then."

The entomologist bent down and began to take pictures of the unnatural position of the body. Afterwards, he examined the head with a gloved hand, searching for any trace from a possible murder weapon. He used his tweezers to pull out wooden splinters embedded in the skull, and placed them in a bindle. He searched for any other obvious trace fibers. He found two different hairs along his torn dress shirt and bagged them.

Grissom carefully explored every inch around the body, knowing the clothes held potential keys and would be gathered at the morgue during the autopsy. He studied the hands, noting dried blood and more hair under the fingernails. Grissom snapped off a few pictures after scraping underneath the nail beds. Then he noticed an odd wound pattern on the man's right hand. After closer inspection, Gil swabbed the area for possible DNA and documented it as well.

The supervisor worked diligently in the difficult environment. The lack of light wasn't necessarily a hamper to the investigation as observing the environment in which the murder took place aided in placing oneself within the context of the action. The red flashing lights from the hall still flared in five-second intervals. The sporadic illumination, even from the depths of the hallway, made it a bit more difficult to concentrate inside the small room. The reddish hues kept bouncing along the glass and walls, causing odd shadows to dance along all the major surfaces of the room.

Nick placed markers as he went, taking photos of every area of blood, the trails leading to several objects. He searched for any other clue that might paint a better picture of what went on instead of just an all-out slaughter. He estimated the victim lost almost two liters of his blood volume.

Nick imagined the destruction and wondered how on earth did such violence go on without anyone noticing.

The smell of copper permeated the air and Nick kept to his haunches to gather every possible weapon. He located one of the broken table legs under a cabinet. It tested positive for blood as well as several of the chairs. Although based on the caked red areas he didn't need his chemical kit to verify that. Nick's inspection led back towards the body. Just under a foot to the left the young CSI noticed a shard of glass. He bent down to  
retrieve it with a set of tweezers, noticing the density difference from the pieces collected from the window of the cabinet. He wrote his initials on the bindle and pocketed it in his vest.

"If this place has such a state of the art security system, then how come no one came to keep our vic from being beaten to death?" Nick asked angrily, shaking his head.

Jim hovered near. "We're still trying to piece together what happened. We have two orderlies on duty who had to receive treatment from their injuries sustained subduing the four patients. The nurse who came in to sedate the suspects is with them. Place went on strict lock down afterwards. So, besides your suspects, those guys are your only other witnesses."

"What about surveillance tape? Did our guy record his sessions for documentation purposes? This place does conduct a lot of research," Grissom asked, looking up.

Nick scanned the room, but noted no signs of closed circuit TV, or cameras. "Don't see any, but I'm sure one of the guards can fill us in."

Grissom signaled for David to transport the body, the assistant finally able to enter the room, avoiding the various makers. The DB was lifted and swiftly removed. Both men spent almost three hours analyzing every speck of dust and splatter of blood. Nick began to draw out the outline of the crime scene as his supervisor finished with the body.

A CB radio chirped and Jim Brass stepped out to answer it.

Nick gathered his collection, placing it in his kit. He'd need to gather trash bags to transport all the chair legs and smashed up pieces of furniture. Grissom stood, scouting the floor that was under the physician, in search of anything he might have missed. Sighing deeply he looked back at the other CSI.

"Whatever happened in this room, it was loud and had to last several minutes. I want to know why no one noticed."

Nick nodded. "We have at least seven interviews to conduct, four patients to process, not to mention we need to find the head of the hospital and get information regarding these inmates. And we get no help on this?"

Grissom appeared to study the distance between where the body had been and the alarm near the entrance. He snapped a picture of it. "Catherine and Warrick are on that ping-pong competition murder, Greg's attending one his mandatory seminars, and I have Sara involved in background research into the hospital."

Nick stood stiffly, working his jaw back and forth. "We could use the extra hand."

Grissom looked up. "I didn't want her involved in this."

Nick peeled back his latex gloves placing them in a plastic bag. "You didn't want her to experience coming back to a place like this. I understand." Nick placed the bagged gloves with the rest of his kit. "It's a nice consideration about what happened last year. She could do her job just fine, but why try to balance an act around such a reminder."

Grissom narrowed his eyes but was interrupted by someone clearing his throat. He turned to see Brass jabbing his thumb back towards the hallway. "Looks like a guy with a really bad suit is coming. Think he's the head honcho."

Grissom stood awkwardly for a moment and walked out the door. Nick gazed at his boss's back silently as he moved his kit next to Grissom's and joined him outside the chilly room. He glanced down at his maroon colored button-up shirt. Maybe he should stick to earth tones after spending so much time around the sickly color of red.

* * *

Dr. Timothy Rhodes was a wiry man with thinning gray hair and spectacles. His rumpled suit jacket, un-ironed shirt, and missing tie indicated he had either been in the middle of a very long night or was not very concerned with his appearance. The four men sat in his office, the doctor twiddling his thumbs during the interview. The room was spacious; the typical black leather couch had to be worth more than a monthly house note. Various pictures all over the wall, obviously of important people, several degrees and award certificates. Multiple pieces of art, plants to calm, and one of those sand hourglasses resting on his desk. All the pleasantries aside the man began to spout the corporate line.

"This is one of the top ten care facilities in the United States. We've never had a patient or staff member die from unnatural circumstances. We take pride in keeping a safe hospital."

Grissom didn't waste a moment before launching into his questions. "We're going to need a rundown on each patient that was in that room. We'll get a court order for in-depth medical history as well as all paperwork on Dr. Kincaid."

The bureaucrat resigned himself along his leather chair. "I'll need the warrant for the transcripts, but I can try to give you a brief description in order to aid your investigation."

Grissom nodded. "Please."

Dr. Rhodes flipped through a chart, adjusting his reading glasses. "Robert Patterson age 32, with a history of psychotic behavior and schizophrenia. He was incarcerated seven years ago for killing his wife and her brother during a family dinner. Patterson could never hold down a job at any one place for very long, history of mental illness in the family. Father killed himself when he was twelve years old."

Grissom and Nick took notes, the younger CSI raising an eyebrow with the last comment. The Graveyard supervisor looked up expectantly for more information.

Sighing the doctor made a clicking noise with his mouth. "Patterson's mother owns a lot of land in Vegas, if you know what I mean. Guy has a stutter when he get all riled up, its the best test we have to detect his moods."

The physician skipped over to the next patient history.

"Sheldon Tanner raped and beat eight women over a period of six years. Diagnosed as a sociopath, being considered for chemical castration, although he'll never see the outside ever again. Both parents are alive and no earlier convictions even though he was suspected in at least three other attacks. Tanner was an IT consultant, no history of family illness." Dr. Rhodes cleared his throat.

"And what exactly does he benefit from here that prison seems to neglect?" Nick asked looking up with unflinching brown eyes.

Grissom shot him a look. "Go on, Dr. Rhodes."

Nick glared back and forth between both men, his hand tightening on his pen as he scribbled away.

The physician scratched his head. "His family doesn't want him to submit to his requested form of treatment. But, he's insistent. His taste of women didn't matter. Race, size, weight, religion, he seemed to pick them at random. His attacks escalated with each sexual assault, his chemical castration is set for next month. His family works in the legal system, they are seeking ways around the procedure."

He looked at both criminalists and moved on to his next file.

The older doctor thumbed though his notes, taking a deep breath. "The third patient is Mr. Leon Stoyanov. Age 41." He stretched his back along his leather chair. "Though people in here call him, Ivan. Born in Russia, whose parents have suspicious ties to the mob. Sort of the bastard child, lock him away so that no one knows about the unwanted black sheep."

"Ignore him and throw away the key," Grissom injected.

The physician shrugged. "He never has any visitors, all of our services are paid direct deposit. He suffers from delusions, and severe paranoia. He was convicted of murdering seven men and women that the police knew of. He meticulously stalked his victims based on some sort of perceived threat, but we've still been unable to detect a pattern. Ivan tortured his victims for several hours in his freezer of the meat pack he operated and was used as a front for his brothers."

"How did he kill them?" Grissom inquired.

The other man flipped though his file. "He stabbed and chopped up two with a machete. He beat to death three with a pipe, and bit the jugular of the his last victims," he added.

Nick peered up from his notes, his tone a low-pitched growl. "And what sort of progress can a man like that make here? How does one get treatment for such brutality?"

Dr. Rhodes stiffened, but replied before Grissom could utter a word at Nick's chiding tone.

"We can study him, try to find out what can lead to such behavior. He's here on a volunteer basis. We can test out drugs and different types of therapy in order to prevent others like him from committing their crimes or catch them while they are young. When they are spray-painting walls and killing small animals," the older man lectured.

"_Volunteer_… yeah, so he doesn't have to be in prison where he belongs," Nick said under his breath loud enough to be heard.

The physician leaned forward. "Our prison systems are so crammed full of non-violent offenders that there is nowhere to house people like our patients. To keep other inmates safe or to interact with them one on one. To keep the other monsters from being created. General prison population is nowhere to hide the people that you fear so much or disgust you. Society makes some criminals..."

"No, criminals have free will and make their choices. Anytime a person puts forethought into a vile crime or happens to be of higher-level intelligence then they are automatically labeled as mentally disturbed and carted off to a white room. If a poor person kills a bunch of people at a gas station with something as arbitrary as a gun, then they are branded a multiple murderer. If some whack job gets creative or if their act is beyond horrifying, then they are simply deranged and get a patted cell." Nick rested all of his weight on his elbows, his bangs barely concealing his darkened eyes.

"Intelligence doesn't factor into the type of punishment. You lose your freedom. It's where you're kept away that changes. Sometimes we have to look into the abyss in order to try to keep others from falling into it." Dr. Rhodes matched Nick's agitated posture.

Grissom rested his hand along the edge of the table near Nick's elbow. The younger criminalist slowly pulled his arm away and crossed both of them in front of his chest. He played idly with his pen and continued to stare at the man across from him. He never once looked over at his superior; it was as if the man wasn't there.

"And the fourth... _patient_," Nick prodded.

Grissom's brow furrowed as he stared at his co-worker, words racing through his mind, but silenced by a mouth that did not open. He settled back into his chair and focused on what was an easier topic to dissect.

"The last patient is Joseph Brighten, age 37. He was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and this was successfully used by his team of defense lawyers at trial."

Nick peered intently at the physician, his jaw clamped tightly. His body seemed to clench itself into a totally rigid state, his tenser posture unnoticed by both men.

"Joesph survived a school bus accident that killed twelve of his classmates in high school. It took teams hours to get him out of the tangled mess. After graduation he left his family and started a new life. His wife and baby were killed by a drunk driver a few years ago. When the man got off on a technicality he snuck a gun into the courtroom and killed the suspect, his lawyer and a county clerk."

Grissom adjusted his glasses. "Must have been a hell of a legal firm. Plead temporary insanity?"

Dr. Rhodes nodded. "He was never treated for the first trauma. He withdrew and escaped from that life, but it didn't help. After the death of his wife and child he let all of his fear and horror of both events send him over the edge. He suffers from severe depression and has become non-communicative the past few weeks. Hasn't spoken a single word for days. It's been part of his ups and downs."

Grissom fixed the older man with his first sort of cold stare. "Why would your colleague have a man who was non-communicative in something like group therapy? Kind of hard to share thoughts and feelings with a man who doesn't speak."

Dr. Rhodes laced his fingers within his hands. "Seems this is the reason why I'm the therapist and you're a crime scene guy. I deal with the living and the only way to encourage people to talk openly is to put them in an environment where other people are communicating."

"Motivation is not the key to dialogue; some people just feel too inept to share emotions. Especially criminals who are people who have something to hide or cannot deal with the vulnerability of being upfront and honest," Grissom spoke softly.

The room almost shuddered, the occupants simply unaware.

"What was Dr. Kincaid doing, conducting therapy session in the middle of the night?" Grissom asked, quickly filling the void.

Dr Rhodes tapped the desk for a moment. "I'm not really sure."

It was the first time Grissom' eyes sparkled. "Really?"

The room fell silent again; the ticking of the clock that hung on the wall the only sound within the office. Nick broke the silence, his question thinly veiled sarcasm. "Care to tell us about your security measures just in case something like a room full of violent offenders gets out hand? Kind of like shaking a ticking bomb, don't you think?"

Grissom stole a glance at the younger man and then focused his attention back towards the doctor awaiting an intriguing answer.

"All our patients are given their daily medications before group. Normally all of them are slightly sedated to help aid in therapy. However, guards and orderlies are posted in the hall and at check points. There's also as an intercom system if the physician needs help, which is rarer than you think."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "What about surveillance. Is there any in that room?"

"No. None is deemed necessary. Dr. Kincaid often videotaped his sessions. He is a primary researcher on this staff. He's only second in grant rewards next to Dr. Stanfield who is conducting studies with some of his patients."

Grissom stood up, signaling an end to the interview. "We'll need full access to all patient records. We'll also need any information regarding Dr. Kincaid and his current caseload. We'll be processing all four men and then will need to conduct interviews with the orderlies who responded."

The physician shuffled his files. "Well, of course. Anything to aid in finding out what happened during this terrible tragedy."

Both criminalists exited the door, with the head of the hospital hard on their heels. "Our patients will remain sedated when you go for your collection, however, per hospital policy. I advise you to wait for a few of our guards to get here to be there for your investigation."

Nick eyed the man wearily. "Isn't there proper personnel already on hand?"

"We're still on lock down. Besides, observing men who are restrained in their bed, under the heavy influence of narcotics is one thing. To poke and prod them…Well, I'd suggest waiting long enough for extra security. It's for your protection," the icy warning clearly evident in his tone.

"Fine. We'll get our findings sent off to our lab and wait at the infirmary for your staff. In the meantime, Mr. Stokes and I will conduct our interviews with the orderlies who were involved after the murder," Grissom informed the head of the hospital as they met Jim Brass in the hallway.

Dr. Rhodes adjusted his unkempt appearance, slicking back errant hairs sticking up. "Of course. But, you will need someone to join you. After all, this is a private hospital and we have our own security in place. I'll go with you, so you can get to the infirmary. Can't have you wandering around by yourselves. Not that you could get anywhere without proper codes and keys."

With his last statement, Dr. Rhodes smoothed out his lab coat over his wrinkled clothes. "I need to make a few phone calls first," and left without another word.

Nick stared at the man's retreating form. "I think he's keeping something back. Got an odd feeling in there."

Grissom bridged the distance between them, his steel blue eyes glared. "We keep our opinions and feelings about aspects of a case to ourselves, Nick. You were out of line and unprofessional. I don't expect that sort of behavior out of you."

Nick didn't lash back, didn't flinch or recoil. Instead of an apology or an excuse he stared at his boss. "That's the first real show of emotion I've seen from you in a long time." Then without another word Nick left the hallway to re-enter the room stained with the rage of someone they had yet to encounter.

* * *

Tbc 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Any normal elevator felt a little cramped with two criminalists, a detective, a physician, and two security guards, even if it was not a standard compartment. It was long inside to accommodate wheelchairs or stretchers as they rode up to the fourth floor of the facility. Should have been plenty of room.

Nick rested his back along the wall in the corner, a nagging underlying sensation creeping up his spine. It had been a while since this kernel of unease had last taken root, so he kept his mind off of it by studying everyone from beneath the brim of his baseball cap. He observed Dr. Rhodes use a key card to access the control panel for the floors, as his tongue wet his bottom lip in thought. It would be cumbersome to be shackled to a staff person whenever one of them needed to go from level to level.

"Where are all the inmates cells?" Grissom asked as they came to their stop.

"A and B blocks are located on the first and second floor. We have 300 patients between them. On the third floor is where are all community and therapy rooms are located. Kitchen, library, exercise rooms, offices," Dr Rhodes informed as they exited out of the lift.

The tiny lobby was accented by pale green walls; the heavy stench of disinfectant hung in the air. Another string of in ceiling lights flashed an angry red. Nick blinked, his eyes squinted as if all of a sudden he had developed a case of photosensitivity. His head hurt from the timing and frequency of the splashing color in the near pitch black corridor.

The entire group bogged down, almost bumping into each other from the dizzying effects. It was like walking from a bright sunny day outdoors into a cave with some wacky rave in full swing and strobe lights to stimulate your visual acuity. Nick held his hand in front of his face following the rest into the nauseating environment. He pondered darkly that blood was harder to see on a green backdrop, a trick some hospitals used in emergency rooms.

"What else is on this level besides the infirmary?" he asked as they encountered another checkpoint, the security detail with them instructing the staff to forgo the normal routine by allowing the group to pass.

A steel door with a thick glass window slid open, the loud metal clanking as it glided on the rail. They were corralled inside a sort of nexus space in between both sets of security doors. Two buff guards monitored cameras on their work stations, two screens displaying the hall they just vacated and the one they were entering.

"C block is located up here. For our patients with the most severe disorders who require tighter security, and who are on heavy amounts of medications. They're under 24-hour supervision," the head honcho explained earning a weary look from Brass and the same neutral expression from the supervisor.

The other door began to open, pushing its occupants out into another hallway. The same pulsating light greeted the huddled group. Every blink of color was like being stabbed in the eyes.

"Damn it, Johnson! Get the proper lights up and running. It's been an hour since this mess for cryin' out loud!" Rhodes thundered as he stomped back towards his staff, barking orders.

One of the gorilla guards, who looked like he stepped out of the ring from a sumo match complained back about a computer glitch. Angry exchanges carried on and the bureaucrat stormed back still cursing under his breath. He gave an irritated look towards the forensics staff. "My colleague, Dr. Stanfield, is on his way. He's helped with this sort of problem before."

Nick allowed a small ironic smile, his tone of voice less than humorous. "I thought this didn't happen very often?"

The wiry man brushed past the CSI, his rude behavior escalating a notch from the previous encounter in the office. Jim glanced over at Nick shrugging his shoulders. "Guess they don't have IT guys."

Nick kept in step with the entourage. The hall widened as the cell block began. Shoe box rooms every few feet were tombs of painted over brick, the only section of the place thus far that felt like a prison. Nick noted security cameras in different corners of the hallway. Each identical door had a set of thick bars that encompassed tiny windows to peek in and check the status of each inmate. There were no padded walls on the inside. Instead each barren room contained unaware sedated zombies strapped to their beds.

Nick found himself in front of the group. His quickened strides took him away from the glimpses of cramped cells filled with monsters. The sprawling building hid its bulk very well from the outside. It was a much larger faculty on the inside as they turned twice stopping before another door. One of the security officers used his key card to open it as they entered the infirmary.

Dr Rhodes spoke briefly with a black male nurse. The guy looked to be in his thirties, shaved head, average build. Green scrub top and bottoms, with a white coat hung loosely around his frame.

"Name's Angelo Davis," was his way of introduction. "You guys hear to talk with Freddie and Sam?"

Grissom stepped up. "If you are referring to the injured orderlies, yes. But we would like to speak with you first."

The nurse shrugged. His body language revealed a man at ease with his environment, his shoulders relaxed, and an easy smile that tugged at his features.

"You responded to the alarm?" the supervisor asked.

"Yeah. I work mainly here. When Sam called for help on the intercom, I responded. Doors between floors automatically close during a lockdown, so I was the closest to the call."

Jim wrote in his notebook, while Nick dug into his kit for his tools.

"What did you see once you entered?" Grissom asked.

Angelo's demeanor stiffened at recalling the events. "Got there and both guys were tangling with two of the patients. They were having a tough time subduing either one."

"How so?" Grissom asked casually trying to keep everything in perspective.

The nurse wiped at his bald head, shaking it. He laughed under his breath, though it was more of a defensive reaction, stifling any embarrassment at the fear. "Dudes went ape shit, bat crazy, Man. Growling. Howling. It was just chaos. I helped pull one of them off of Sam, injected him with Ativan. Then it took all three of us to keep the other one down long enough to stick the needle in. Missed once, but got him in the neck of all places. He still struggled like King Kong himself." Angelo whistled. "Crazy ass shit."

Grissom seemed satisfied with his answers; he was about to nod to Nick to start processing the nurse, when the younger man stepped over and began.

"I need to see your hands for a few minutes. I also need to collect anything under your nails." Nick looked up. "Cool?"

The easy manner was back. Angelo seemed none too worried. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out. I changed clothes just a few minutes ago. If you need my other scrubs, they're in the biohazard hamper next to the cabinet."

"Yeah, we'll collect that with all the other clothes when we leave," Nick answered, as he performed the needed procedures. After his collection was complete, he placed his tools into the pockets of his vest and the bindles were placed in his kit.

Grissom looked back and forth between both men seeming satisfied that everything was complete. "May we see the two orderlies?"

Angelo tapped a clipboard to his side, brown eyes studying the intense crowd. "Yeah. Follow me."

Their security escort took two vacant chairs as their presence wasn't necessary during these interviews. The nurse lead them to an open area with five beds. Two of them were occupied in the far right corner. When the CSIs and Brass entered, both patients swung their legs over, each one sitting up. The hospital head made introductions.

Grissom turned to a man in his forties sporting a buzz cut, and a smooth hairless face. His right arm hung in a sling, his left eye was swelling shut, and a myriad of dark bruises formed one hell of a shiner. "Freddie Wilkes," he introduced and pointed to a younger guy on the gurney, "And that's Sam."

Grissom nodded to the quieter orderly and faced the one in front of him."Mr. Wilkes, do you think you could tell me and my colleagues what happened to you and what you witnessed?"

The man rubbed at his chin using his free hand. "Sam and I were talking after we each made a sweep."

"You each have an area to monitor?" Grissom asked to clarify.

"Yeah. I take the west end, and Sam the east. We sort of cross paths in the middle and stop to shoot the shit."

Nick got out a penlight from his kit. "About what time was that?"

"Around eleven." The man looked over to Grissom who nodded for him to continue. "We were just talking when all Hell broke loose. The lights went out, and those damn red ones began flashing. We knew it was an alarm, but normally we don't plunge into darkness. We contacted the checkpoint station with my radio for any calls and we were told an alarm had been pulled. Then lockdown procedures were begun and we began inspecting each room for trouble."

Grissom pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You guys didn't know what room signaled the alarm?"

The other, orderly shook his head. Grissom noticed stitches along the side of his pale cheek, strawberry blond long hair pulled into a ponytail that matched his perfectly trimmed goatee. "It was general alarm. We had no clue who punched it in. We had to go through every room," he said as he shook his head. "Do you know how much time was wasted doin' that?"

Nick gave the young orderly a fleeting glance and nothing more, before sliding his gloves on and focusing his attention on Freddie Wilkes. "Do you think you could hold up your right hand, please?"

Wilkes narrowed his eyes but did as requested. Nick shone his light in a pattern over the man's skin for blood, even though he knew that any would have been washed way during treatment. Pocketing his light into his vest, he pulled out a tiny instrument. "I need to scrape under your nails." Nick held open a small envelope as he lifted any foreign material from under each nailbed.

Wilkes ignored the younger CSI as he continued. "When we approached the room where Dr. Kincaid usually conducted group we heard...these terrible screams," he said as he wet his lips. "Like an animal's right before it tears its prey apart."

Sam looked down at the floor as he fiddled with the strings to his hospital issued top. "It wasn't anything I'd ever heard before and I've worked here for over four years." The man's voice betrayed his young age, barely in his mid twenties.

Nick moved over towards him and began the same procedures for collecting any trace or blood from the guard's hands for comparison tests that would be used later on. Their clothes would be collected in bags and taken to the lab.

Wilkes shared a glance with his more shaken up friend and focused his attention back towards Grissom. "We looked through the window and saw Dr. Kincaid's body on the floor."

The young orderly ignored the somewhat undignified procedures, trying to gain support from his older colleague. Nick didn't say a word of reassurance as he finished up processing the man's hands as they trembled. The kid tried to keep his voice from shaking. "We...we just went in to see if he was alive."

"You didn't wait for help?" Nick asked as he wrote his initials on the envelopes before storing them in his kit.

Wilkes glared at Nick, his tone harsh and bitter. "No! We...we… Christ...there was blood all over the floor…we just..." His eyes darkened, "Those freaks bashed him into raw hamburger." The larger man pounded his free hand onto his knee. "Yeah, we rushed inside. That's when Patterson and Ivan launched at us. Bastards were on us like two rabid dogs, hollering and mumbling about how we were there to kill them."

Grissom frowned. "Ivan, ...Leon Stoyanov, right?"

"Yeah, Leon, that fuck," Wilkes growled. "Just a melee of fists, teeth, and crushed bodies. We both got into a tussle before Sam was able to get enough licks in to radio which room we were in."

"Which patient was sedated first?" Grissom asked .

"Robert Patterson, that stuttering fool gets real hard to handle, " the huffy man replied. Brass had been diligently scribbling notes the whole time.

Sam nodded. "It took all of us to subdue Ivan- I mean Leon. Guy broke my partner's arm and was trying to throttle me. Kept muttering, _You before me_, the whole time. We all had to dog pile him for Angelo to get the needle in. Even then he didn't pass out till several minutes later."

"What about the other inmates?" Grissom pressed on.

Wilkes snorted. "They were each huddled in a different corner. Joey was rocking back and forth, scared shitless of his own shadow."

"Joey?" Grissom, raised en eyebrow.

"Yeah, Joey. No one calls him Joesph around here. Sheldon Tanner had barricaded himself behind a broken table, started to threaten us every time we came near him. Babbling about the Devil and payback. Once two more guys showed up we easily took both of them down and zipped them up."

Nick's brow furrowed. "Zipped them up?"

"Got them into their straitjackets. Fuckers had fresh blood all over them. We were buying their act," Wilkes grunted. He looked at the trio and merely shrugged. "We got the animals all loaded up and carted down here into their pens. Angelo put them into la la land. I say keep them there, if they like it so much."

"Did Dr. Kincaid normally conduct group therapy at such late hours?" Grissom asked.

Both employees seemed to think about the situation in that matter for the first time. Wilkes shrugged. "Nah. Not that I ever recall."

"You can't tell us any more about what you observed or what any of the inmates said?" Grissom inquired.

Wilkes stepped closer to the supervisor, causing Brass to inch forward. "It was like some goddamn nightmare. We went in, fought off the loonies, and got the hell out. Waited for the cops to show while we got ourselves down here to be checked out. Got some cracked ribs and Sam's got a concussion and a twisted knee for his trouble."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "You guys were lucky then."

The orderly stalked away and sat on his bed in a form of dismissal. "Yeah. Doc got pummeled by his angry beasts. He should know better to then try to tame the wild."

* * *

The secured section of the medical ward was just another room. The walls were not made of lead, no fancy motion sensors or state of the art security to keep bad guys at bay. This was an area to heal the sick, even if it so happened the patients had a collective melt down. There were ten beds total, the four suspects were separated each by an empty row. All the lights were dimmed and all of the fluorescent bulbs turned off. Beside each patient was an IV bag dripping medications to a vein in each arm. Heart monitors recorded a slumber induced person. The two additional antsy security guards stood almost in the way as each criminalist went about processing.

Nick leaned over the bed of the first suspect. Restraints secured his wrists and ankles and several more straps held his torso in place beneath a thin sheet. A face revealed no personality, just eyes that shifted beneath their lids as if they might pop open and red tinted pupils of something inhuman might stare back at him.

Nick hesitated only briefly at the continued sporadic eye movement. REM sleep indicated deep rest, dreams, nightmares, images conjured while the brain was on autopilot. The face of the man was void of tension; sedatives were meant to calm and still a person, and in extreme cases conk you out if need be. Another facial twitch, corner of the mouth spasming around the left side of the face, then suddenly still. Eyes that flinched, then drooped.

Did he look like this while under the spell of muscle relaxants and tranquilizers one foggy night, lost in a haze of drugs? Nick wet his lips again. The stench of blood was still fresh on the skin of these men. The pheromones of fear and rage filled the air from all the occupants. Their forms an embodiment of dark and deviant behavior that breathed all around him.

He was inside a mental ward. It would cause anyone a tinge of nerves. He observed his boss out of the corner of his eye; smooth as silk. No anxiety, no nerves. Will of solid iron and no doubt holding all the answers in his steel trap of a mind.

Nick stared at the face of the prisoner, another slight tic as the man's mouth twisted at the corners. He turned to show Grissom, but then something stopped him. His mind tried to  
fill in the blanks left by the holes in his confidence.

His neck knotted up the more he thought of it. The room almost hummed with tension, the sources of agitation and electricity impossible to pinpoint. Or so close by that one could see the sparks glow a deep blue when frayed nerves rubbed together in the air.

Jaw tight, thoughts focused on processing, Nick took his light and began with the hands and fingers. He lowered to a crouch and peered at blood-stained fingertips that connected to broken and split nails. He took out a swab, gliding the tip of the cotton over them. His elbow brushed against one of the guard's pant legs as he loomed over the investigator.

Nick stood up, spinning around. "Will give you give me some space, Man?"

Grissom shot a look in his direction but Nick didn't pay it much attention. The security guard backed away. "That's Stutter Boy-- Robert Patterson, the guy who tried to take out Freddie and Sam," he grunted.

Nick rubbed at the sweat forming below the brim of his hat with his forearm. "Yeah. Well, Mr. Patterson is sleepin' now. Just try not to hover so much, okay?"

Nick took out a tool to begin scraping at the man's skin to collect epithelials, to see if he had contact with the deceased. The steady rise and fall of the suspect's chest and heavy breathing was a bit disconcerting. He'd processed unconscious victims at hospitals before, but the extra precautions and the tension was nerve-wracking As he began searching for defensive wounds or bruises Nick swore he could hear his heart thunder in  
his chest. Focusing on his task and mindful of so many other people, he went about his job, digging into his kit to gather a DNA sample.

Gil Grissom began with the next patient. Like his colleague he began with hands and nails, both caked with dried blood. He glanced over at Dr. Rhodes who had inconspicuously blended in with the shadows on the walls. "Exactly who am I looking at here?"

The physician didn't budge from his position of observation. "That would be Sheldon Tanner, one of our esteemed rapists."

Grissom didn't hide his scowl over the poor taste and callous words. "He was one of the ones who didn't resist," he remarked, untying the hospital gown in order to document the sleeping man's torso. He pulled the cloth down, noting a faint bruise along his collarbone. Grissom snapped a photo.

The supervisor proceeded to gather samples, noticing the lack of any blood on the man's hands or around his body. His clothes may hold more secrets for later. Grissom took a cotton swab and opened the man's slack mouth to rub the inside of his cheek. The man's tongue protruded out, the lax muscle dipped along the bottom lip. Grissom tried to coax it back inside, not wanting the guy biting down on it when he awoke.

"We'll need to set up interviews as soon as possible. We'll take their clothes to our lab for further tests and can come back later tonight or tomorrow."

Angelo the nurse scanned the chart attached at the foot of the bed. He pursed his lips. "Each of them got the same dose of Ativan, all of them will be awake by morning." He shrugged. "Each case is different. I know Leon is fairly hard to keep snowed under, he'll be awake before the others."

Grissom nodded. "Well, we can only interview them one at a time, so that's fine. He'll be first on my list."

Grissom moved on towards the man in question. It was obvious this was Leon Stoyanov, the oldest of the inmates. His head was quite large as was the rest of his body. Broad shoulders, torso, muscular legs. The patient did something to keep in shape while being confined. Shaggy dark black hair, five o'clock shadow across an unusual golden complexion. Right wrist had a brace on it, his face a plethora of newly formed bruises, a cut along his neck, possibly where the syringe had scratched him during the attempted  
injection.

Grissom spent extra time documenting the body, every discoloration of skin, every gash. When he finished with the blood stained hands, the supervisor noted a tiny dark stain around the corner of the suspect's bottom lip. Carefully he took a swab for his collection and brushed over it. Then Grissom shined his penlight along the rest of the man's battered face when he saw steel blue eyes stare back at him.

Grissom squinted to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him in the dimly lit room. The man's mouth opened and Grissom cautiously lowered his ear and listened to slurred words. The supervisor strained to hear the whisper, both guards now standing at his sides, as if the man could just rip off his bonds. Grissom stood up and adjusted his glasses, the suspect back asleep below him.

Jim Brass wandered over, curious, his eyes flashing between the man on the bed and the older CSI. "He say something, Gil?"

Grissom's perplexed look faded to his more stoic expression, the faint hint of curiosity sparkled in his eyes. He arched an eyebrow, noting he had an audience. "He said, _You're the blue-eyed Devil_." The entomologist shrugged, as if the rambles of a deranged man didn't bother him in the least.

The Captain gnawed at his bottom lip as the nurse walked over to check the patient's vitals. "Must have been a brief moment of semi-lucidity."

Brass snorted. "I'd hazard a guess that anything a whack job says under heavy sedation is anything but lucid."

Nurse Angelo shrugged. "A person can have bouts of consciousnesses. Depends on his physiological makeup and history with drugs."

Grissom seemed unfazed. "Speaking of, I want samples of all blood drawn from each suspect."

Dr. Rhodes joined the group huddled around the entomologist as each security guard seemed reluctant to relax just yet. "We'll be running our own tests, Mr. Grissom. Rest assured we will be conducting an internal investigation."

Grissom spoke as if the head physician had not said anything. "Also, I want blood drawn every few hours for comparison analysis. Our lab will handle all toxicology and anything else deemed necessary."

Nick had moved on to the last suspect. Identifying the man was easy, since he was the only one left. Joseph Brighten was an average everyday looking kind of guy. Average sized body, short brown hair graying along the edges. No facial hair and of course no way to tell what color eyes without looking at his chart. Not that it really mattered to him in the scheme of things. Nick glanced at the discussion taking place a few feet away.

The hair along the back of his neck rose when out of the corner of his eye it seemed his boss was listening to one of the suspects. His already tense back muscles seemed to knot even tighter, his feet balanced just right to spring into action if need be. Once the warning bells in his head were muted, he turned his attention back at the task at hand. The tension never ebbed from his shoulders, although his posture was more visibly relaxed when  
everyone else was pre-occupied. He enjoyed silence and isolation more and more of late. No beady eyes, no---

Nick sighed and took out his camera to document the suspect's torso after pulling back the man's top to reveal unbruised flesh. Documentation was documentation, everything needed to be standardized. He leaned over the body to inspect some odd marks on his left hand instead of walking to the other side. With his legs braced over the bed, his chest brushing over the man's stomach, Nick flinched when he felt fingers pinch his leg.

He nearly dropped his Nikon, the camera dangling from his neck, eyes wide at the brown ones staring overly dilated at his. Instead of jerking away, his feet were frozen in place. A droplet of sweat trailed painstakingly slow down his brow, along his nose and down to the trembling body below him.

Extremely saucer-like eyes glued to his face, a mouth opened, no words coming out, fingers grasping at the fabric of his slacks, stretching to tug the hem of his untucked shirt.. What Nick witnessed was horror, pure horror and fear, before the eyes rolled back into the mans' head, the fingers clutching at him slackened.

Nick let out a gasp, finally breaking free of his paralysis. Just like the freakiest moments of the past few months no one had been the wiser of the newest encounter. That was until his audible response. Now several sets of eyes were on him as he staggered backwards.

"Nick?"

He didn't acknowledge his name. Jim and one of the guards went next to him.

"Hey, Nicky, you okay?"

Nick raised an eyebrow and glanced over. His voice was as bland and neutral as ever. "Yeah, fine. Involuntary muscle reaction from our guy here."

Angelo came over, checking the patient. "Hmmm. He should be under the sandman's spell for a while."

Grissom stepped over, inspecting for himself. He glanced over at the other CSI.

Nick didn't meet his gaze. He laughed instead. "Yeah, something like that." He looked over at his boss. "If we're doing interviews tomorrow, I'll run the results back to the lab." Short and to the point.

Without a second's hesitation, Nick packed his kit and wandered over towards Dr. Rhodes. "I'll need to be heading back. Care to let me out?"

Grissom stood silently, no orders ever escaped his lips. Jim scrunched up his face. "Didn't you two ride over together?"

The supervisor shook his head. "No. Nick took his own truck."

Jim's eyes wandered back and forth. "Seems like a waste of gas," he grumbled.

Grissom didn't respond, his eyes speaking volumes, but words never reaching his mouth.

Nick fidgeted as he waited for the director or a guard to escort him out of the infirmary. He didn't glance back or even wait for orders. He followed one of the security men out into the other room, and back towards the hall. He didn't know if Grissom had said anything, since his heart was racing so fast, he swore it blocked out any other sound. Instead he wiped at his brow again and never looked back. Body stiff, shoulders squared, as he headed back towards the lab and out of the madhouse.

tbc...

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Sara Sidle's eyes burned from a permanent etching of documents that rolled out from a scrolling computer screen. Her wrist had a familiar ache of being tight from clicking the mouse and holding it at a constant annoying angle. She blew a breath over her steaming cup of coffee. The shift had ended some time ago, but like so many times previous, she was still at the lab. She had pried herself away from it when Nick had come in to log his stuff.

Sara had been unsure if he had planned on going over his photos and begin his preliminary reconstruction of the crime. All the toxicology, blood, and fibers results would not be ready till morning. Doc Robbins wouldn't even begin his incision on the body for countless hours. Too many things percolating, but no real evidence to study, except for the piles of clothes. Her casual inquiry concerning a possible division of labor was politely brushed off.

No, that wasn't right. Nick Stokes didn't brush people off. He was always willing to offer a chair, or listen to advice concerning evidence. It was never a show to hog, or a way to chase down glory. Nick was one of the few criminalists who used all his resources around him. Catching the bad guys was his reward. Opinions mattered, counted.

This time around Sara felt her presence was akin to the paint on the wall. Merely a background and silent witness to the activity buzzing around her. Nick had scarcely said more than two words. Both of which were kind, of course, but at the same time distracted.

She had found little things to pass the time, to add value to the case. However, as the minutes ticked away and her co-worker studied a mountain of fabric, it was obvious that unless the man had planned to spend the night, he was never going to get through five sets of clothes. She leaned just inside the doorjamb, years of instincts kicking in, observing, listening.

Nick went back and forth from the blood splattered t-shirt stretched out over the table with his light to several sets of photographs set up along the right side of the garment. His lean body bent over the under-lit table, one hand resting on top as his eyes darted between both objects. Sara wanted to walk over and brush away the bangs that barely dangled aloft from his face. His hair had finally grown out long enough where it he didn't look like the spitting image of Buster Brown. It made Nick look...softer, a bit more...

Sara quickly squashed her musings. Shifts were blurring together, the clothes remained a heap, just beckoning.

"You know, I've just begun my second cup of coffee. I need something to go along with all of this caffeine. Sooooo, what stack can I help with?"

Nick grinned without looking at her. He stretched his back, pulling away from the table, as he cracked his neck from side to side, sighing in sort of a defeatist way.

"You could just dump the sludge and go home."

Sara allowed a tiny smile; at least he was still grinning while he spoke. Sara took it for the sign that it was and stood next to him as he stayed in a lazy stretch from the table. "I wouldn't want you to hog all the fun."

Nick moved with the grace of a large cat, bending, than straightening to full height, sighing as he wiggled away stiff muscles. "All right," he drawled.

"I've been going the clothes worn by each patient." Nick stopped, licking his lips, waiting to see if there was any outward sign of a reaction. Sometimes certain words could trigger the littlest things, but Sara Sidle was a rock. He smiled inwardly. "I've already swabbed two suspect sets of clothes, and have the last two. Grissom has the sets belonging to the  
orderlies and the nurse."

Sara looked at him with a teasing expression. "Forgot to grab the other set in your rush to get out?" Her smile soon evaporated when Nick's semi-good mood soured at her joke. Sara wasn't sure, but she had obviously hit a sore spot, when his body went rigid. He busied himself inspecting the shirt in front of him, _silent_ Nick mode in full effect.

She stood there at a loss for a few brief moments. She pulled out the third set of clothes, a plain green shirt, and a typical set of drab uniform styled pants. Sara laid them flat, her own penlight in search for stains, or any other trace elements. She brushed her own cotton swab over areas, packing them in little plastic tubes for further analysis.

The room fell silent as Nick tried to set a speed record in processing his last set of clothes. Knowing that trying to bring up anything to do with his mood was useless, Sara brought up aspects of the case. Anything was better than walking on eggshells, especially when you didn't know where they were strewn across.

"The Reynolds Institute has a pretty spotless record."

Nick feigned interest with a, "Yeah."

Sara cleared her throat, not allowing any of the edge she felt tinge her voice. "It's a privately funded hospital. Although its main charter is set up as a prison faculty, the research grants pouring in keep it on the headlines of many psychology journals and provide a lot of data for pharmaceutical companies."

Nick snatched a hair with a tape lift. "Dig anything up on Dr. Kincaid?"

Sara scraped off flecks of dried blood into a sample. "Yes. Graduated from Berkley, spent all of his time in clinical studies. Violent mood swings, debunking split personality cases, spent a great deal of time on delusional disorders. He's brought in tens of thousands to the center."

Nick raised an eyebrow. "That's fairly prestigious. What about his current research? The guy was conducting group therapy in the middle of the night. Maybe he was going against hospital policy? Or he was conducting little side experiments that got out of hand?"

Sara shrugged. "Maybe. Nothing in his articles or write-ups, including rebuttals from within the medical community ever hinted at bad practices. He was paving the ground work for long term clinical treatments for obsessive behavioral disorders."

Nick shrugged. "Locking himself in the same room as four violent felons without the staff or guards knowing anything about it. Seems pretty suspicious."

Sara stilled her actions. "You think he put himself in a situation that got him killed? Victim of his own volatile environment?"

Nick folded the pair of pants, stuffing them into a plastic bag. "No opinion. I'll let the facts dictate to me what happened. Though anyone who just ignores any caution, and allows himself to believe that he's safe in his little sphere on the job is a fool."

Sara frowned. "Nick." When he didn't look up she repeated his name louder. "Nick!"

Brown eyes peered at her, and his expression softened and melted into a sheepish little shrug. "Sorry, Sar. It's getting late and I can get a bit cranky on occasion." The ends of his mouth twisted into a playful smile.

She didn't comment on his frequent crankiness as he called it of late as she pressed on. "His colleague, Dr. Stanfield, is in the middle of a larger research study, testing out some new drug for the Vicom Company. His early test results are creating a lot of waves in the community; if it pans out, it could be a huge breakthrough for people with delusional disorders."

Nick looked at her with a curious expression. "Dr. Kincaid and Stanfield both studied delusional disorders, were they on the same project?"

Sara stared off into space thinking, since her notes were back on her laptop. "Not that I recall. In fact...Nick. The most effective treatment for any delusional disorders is individual one on one sessions, defiantly not group therapy."

"Really?"

Sara nodded. "Yeah. Anti psychotic medication is the primary course as there is no real treatment. Maybe a therapist can try to treat anxiety first and confront a patient about their version of reality. Might be the reason why both of them are getting so many grants if they are looking into new forms to combat it."

Nick seemed to digest the new information, the room growing silent again. Feeling that this was the best time to ask, Sara rested her arms along the edge of the table. "So was it rough in there?"

Her genuine concern and directness seemed to catch him off guard. Nick rarely fumbled with words.

He looked back down at the table, shaking his head. "It, it wasn't too bad."

Sara placed her hand on his forearm. "Not all of us are like Grissom. It's normal to feel uncomfortable in an environment surrounded by the mentally disturbed. It's one thing to be a victim of your mind; it's another to be consumed by it. To lose reality, to allow your own terror to exploit and swallow up humanity. The people there are all convicted felons. They lost the right to be a victim when they created new ones by the loss of control."

Nick shrugged. "I didn't let it get to me."

Sara stared at him with her _I don't buy it _expression. "Grissom is keeping me off the scene. Lab detail, records checks only."

"Who knows why Grissom does the things he does. I wouldn't worry about it," Nick said offhandedly.

He packed up the clothes and placed them in their respective plastic bags and into neatly labeled cardboard boxes. Sara helped with organizing her own pile.

"You can call me, if you need some back up." Sara shrugged. "Just in case the workload is too heavy."

Nick hefted the boxes turning to store them away for the next day. He paused in the doorway, his mouth opened, then closed. Thinking a beat, but never giving her eye contact, "Consider yourself lucky that he's given it any consideration at all."

Sara stood awkwardly as her co-worker made a beeline for the hallway, leaving his comments behind like unwanted baggage.

* * *

Nick finished re-arranging some of the other caseloads that threatened to teeter over their overstuffed shelves. Knowing it was the last thing anyone ever thought of he finished heaping boxes around, wiping at his brow damp with sweat from the effort. He glanced at his watch, knowing the day shift had already filtered in. He dusted off his hands and headed for the locker room to change and go to sleep. He nodded politely at colleagues in the hall and saw the looming figure of Conrad Ecklie as the Assistant Director recognized him in the corridor.

Nick sighed, noting the eye contact and that slight change of posture indicating the man wanted a word with him. Ecklie held up a hand, signaling for him to stop for a moment. Nick raised his head in acknowledgment.

"Ecklie," he merely stated.

His superior eyed him, his normal snide expression deepening to a scowl. "Nick. You know the Sheriff and his staff are visiting the Lab later today. If you happen to see them, I'd like you to give them a few minutes of your time." The bald man waved a hand in the air. "You know. Dazzle them with your charms and details about your duties here."

The attempt to stroke his ego didn't affect the Texan. Nick leaned his hand along the hallway wall. The man in front of him morphed more into a politician every day. "If I have the time. I'm kind of in the middle of a case right now. I don't give dog and pony shows."

Ecklie frowned and stared at younger man. "Its not about what _you_ want, Nick. It's about playing the game. Got it?'

Nick wet his lips. "I don't play games, Ecklie." He brushed past the man on his way home.

"Stokes."

Nick reluctantly turned around to face the man addressing him. Ecklie eyed him like some cartoon bad guy, obnoxious in his over-bloated swagger "We have dress code standards. You're not a tech. When you're on the clock, try to keep your shirt tucked in."

The urge to step forward was burning inside, but another half of his brain really didn't care. Instead, Nick didn't say a word in response and left the Assistant Director somewhat puzzled.

* * *

Nick had changed shirts and felt like dragging his ass back to the comfort of his home without changing jeans. He had a more worn out pair, instead of the ones that felt glued to his legs, but he was bone tired and didn't want to waste the time. He draped a jacket over his shoulders and spun around to find his boss standing in the doorway.

Nick grabbed his hat from his locker, brushed over his hair and slapped it on. He walked over towards Grissom and looked up at him. Letting him know with his eyes that he was ready to go to bed, but letting him know in the same subtle motion he'd stay on if there was a break in the case.

Grissom straightened, and sort of just stared at him, his face reminiscent of a statue's. That expression in the past normally meant that he had screwed up, or had done something to warrant a private type talk. He used to respond by getting defensive or backing down, already formulating apologies before the words were ever spoken.

Now… Now he felt drained of energy, the desire to rally his defenses feeling somewhat pointless. A waste of time.

"We need to be back at the hospital around six. Nurse Angelo told me that all four patients will be lucid enough for an interview. They're keeping them all on lower doses of Ativan through the morning until the prison goes back to standard operating procedures."

Nick nodded. It still gave him the needed hours to catch some rest and get back to the Lab for any tests results. Tomorrow would prove to be the mother load of data they were missing.

Grissom paused, broadcasting in waves how uncertain he felt in just engaging in normal conversation. Nick decided to save him the trouble. "Doc should have a preliminary autopsy and hopefully our blood sample comparisons will aid in figuring out what happened in that room. I'll be sure to get here early."

Nick smiled. That always seemed to set people at ease. This time though, Grissom wasn't budging from the door. Defusing conversations with the Graveyard Supervisor took no effort. It only required skills with people who really knew him at all to recognize the attempt.

He rubbed at his eyes. "Man, I better get goin' before I fall asleep at the wheel," he chuckled softly.

"Tonight. It... I mean. These type of cases can be rough." Grissom fumbled, looking totally lost as he looked directly at his co-worker. "If you…"

Nick patted Grissom on the shoulder. "Yeah. I'd be sure to talk to you about it. But, there's no reason to."

Nick sort of nudged his way past the older man, all smiles. "See ya tomorrow," he called over his shoulder.

Nick waved at Sara as she headed for her own locker as he went out into the early sunlight.

Sara sort of half waved back, Nick already out of sight down the hall, Gil Grissom joining her. She looked up at her boss who seemed somewhat aloof.

"Hey."

Grissom took a moment to break away from whatever zone had encompassed his mind. "Hey. " He said in a sort of afterthought. "You should be going home."

Sara smiled despite the hypocritical nature of his statement. "I was just leaving." She waited for further comments, but there was a distant look in his eyes.

Sara sighed deeply. "You know the Kelly Gordon case wrapped up just last week."

Grissom gave her an unreadable expression. How typical when dealing with a personal issue. The man oozed discomfort. Sara didn't bristle; she of all people was used to this. "He might not be open to talking about things, but I bet he'd appreciate at least the effort." It was as big of a hint as she was going to give her co-worker.

The left side of his mouth twitched, the only signal that he processed what she said. Grissom was going to continue to play the inept card, his mannerisms giving him away. Sara could almost predict what his response would be if he even addressed it directly at all.

"Nick knows my door is always open."

That was it. Sara stood there as her boss walked away. Not towards the parking lot, but to the room that was granted more consideration and thought than any of the people that went in and out of it on a normal basis. Sara wasn't surprised, more saddened that insects and books had a better rapport with the scientist then with most of his friends. She found her car in the parking lot, knowing deep down that Grissom was indeed a changed man since last summer, but still trapped behind his own prison walls, seemingly unwilling to try to find a way out.

* * *

Nick kicked off his shoes and socks, padding around in bare feet. He swapped his dingy jeans for a pair of comfortable black sweat pants. He sipped on a bottle of water, rifling through bills and junk mail as he hit the button to his answering machine, listening to messages as he weeded out the important stuff.

"_Hey, Nick, it's Catherine. Just reminding you that the game's at my house this weekend. Bring your own booze. I think Warrick and Greg are duking it out on the grill_."

The machine buzzed, signaling the end. He deleted the message, dumping the piles of papers into the trashcan next to his desk. He sprawled out on his sofa, grabbing the TV remote and surfing around for something to zone out to. This early in the morning the programming selection was less than stellar and he had not Tivo'd anything since football had headed into the post season. He allowed the droning voices of news anchors to bore him as he felt himself drift off. His routine had always been to wait till he was completely relaxed in his living room, then would settle down to bed. This time around his desire for rest was overwhelming so the veg time was cut short.

He groaned to himself as he dragged his body up. He tussled with his hair, his mind drifting towards the thought of a hot shower. He went to bathroom, brushed his teeth, pulled off his T-shirt and readied for bed. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, parting his hair all to the left side, and then flopping the bangs in the other direction. Still unsatisfied, he messed it all up, knowing any fuss with it was pointless.

He was sporting quite the five o'clock shadow, the tiny hairs bristling over the skin of his fingers. He'd need to allow enough time for a shave when he woke up. He wasn't in the mood to hear any more diatribes about a re-occurrence of his facial hair. He had liked it; the mustache made him feel rugged, different. He eyed the electric razor, sometimes tempted to just shave all of his hair off again, but the longer style made him seem  
younger. He laughed; it wasn't like he was _old_.

Nick shook his head, still feeling tense and wound up from the night. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet inside of his home. All the window shades were drawn; no light penetrated the black stillness of his room. He wandered over towards the bed, put his phone on the nightstand and pulled the covers over his tired body. His mind drifted around for a while, aspects of the case, what he wanted to do this weekend.

Staying at home was very appealing. He could enjoy the big game alone as much as some social gathering. For some reason interacting with everyone from work outside the lab was just...stressful.

No. He'd work the case and sleep on his day off. No real need to complicate things.

* * *

A/N's notes at my bio. Big thanks again to those that I can't reply to, who are not logged in. I missed you C1!


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Nick stood in the layout room studying the photos tacked on the bulletin board as he tried to piece together the incoming results from trace and DNA. The CSI jotted down notes as he heard the door open and close. He gave Grissom a nod and pointed to the board.

"The wooden table leg tested positive for Dr. Kincaid's blood and matched the splinters of wood you found in his skull." Nick pointed out the photos of the weapon used to bash in the victim's head.

Grissom accepted the information. "Doc Robbins confirmed the skull fracture as a result of blunt force trauma."

Nick looked perplexed. "The prelim finished already?"

Grissom held up a file on cue. "Just finished with him. Dr. Kincaid suffered massive head injuries from at least two distinctive blows. I used an exact replica of the table leg to create the same kind of wound and fracture pattern."

Nick opened the file, scanning the contents. "What about the rest?"

Grissom flipped over some of the sheets. "Facial fractures common from hand to hand."

"Beaten by fists," Nick concluded.

Grissom merely shrugged. "The puncture wound to his thigh was created by something one inch in diameter."

Nick rummaged through one of the cardboard boxes, pulling out a large plastic bag. He unwrapped a metal object. "This was one of the chair legs; as you can see the foot at the end is missing, leaving a nice ragged weapon. He was probably stabbed with it. Blood on it is positive for the victim."

Grissom held out his hand for Nick to give him the metal object. The older man studied the end and without looking up asked, "You know the diameter of this?"

He peered up through his glasses to see a grin: Grissom couldn't help but match the enthusiastic response.

Nick pointed to a tag attached to the leg. "The beginning is half an inch, but as you go up the base where the blood stains end, it becomes almost one inch in diameter. I think some of the break room chairs are the same plastic ones in that room. If I find the same model I can conclusively prove if this could cause the same sort of puncture wound." Nick tilted his head. "COD massive blood loss from hitting an artery, or from the head trauma?"

It was Grissom's turn to give the other CSI an expression of curiosity. "Neither. He died from a broken neck."

Nick looked at his stack of ghastly photos of the body. He stared at all the blood and raw violence unleashed upon the victim. He leaned all his weight on both hands taking in everything as a whole. Then looked at his boss sensing a missing link. "We have a man who was pummeled by pure rage. Fists, blunt objects, and yet one of the suspects controlled his fury long enough to break the guy's neck?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Interesting, isn't it?"

"That takes precision and restraint," Nick injected.

"Not to mention know-how. His fifth vertebrae were twisted and snapped in a single motion. Death was instant." Grissom shuffled through the autopsy findings.

Nick fingered one of slip of paper. "Doc know if it happened before or after his pounding?"

Grissom's eagerness for the peculiar information faded slightly. "No," he conceded.

Nick shuffled the papers and waved a piece from one of his own stacks dramatically. "Well, I've got something just as unusual."

Grissom was all ears. "What?"

"The metal chair leg, the one with Kincaid's blood? Well, it also had the smallest amounts of blood from Leon Stoy-ana-ovf," Nick mangled the name pronouncing it. He cleared his throat annoyed. "Ivan's," he added using the same nickname from the hospital. "His prints are all over both the chair leg and the table one as is..…" He paused for a guess.

Grissom scowled. "Whose?" he asked impatiently.

Nick handed him the sheet. "Joseph Brighten."

Grissom pursed his lips. "The patient with communication issues, cowering in a corner?"

Nick crossed his arms in front of him. "The vic's blood is all over our four suspects. Both weapons have Ivan's fingerprints on them and a second set by Brighten, the guy who was described as nearly catatonic when the orderlies arrived.

"Sheldon Tanner had a faint bruise along his chest, but no blood or split knuckles. Leon had bruises all over him, busted up face, some sort of wrist injury." Grissom commented.

Nick pulled out his notebook from the other night. "Joseph Brighten had no physical wounds from a fight, just blood along his fingernails, not under. Robert Patterson, though, had signs of battered fingers as well as torn nails, blood all over them."

Grissom's mouth twitched. "Right now the psychical evidence points to Ivan, and Robert Patterson as the ones to have assaulted the victim hand to hand, while Ivan had double the fun with two weapons."

"Then Joey attacks Ivan, sort of confusion in the heat of the moment maybe? Hit anything that moves and then all of a sudden become docile when the orderlies arrive," Nick summarized his tone of voice betraying his disbelief.

Grissom sighed. "We've got a pretty big puzzle with several holes. Our interviews might clarify what happened in there."

Nick opened his mouth to agree when Sara strolled in, her own set of files with her. "Hey, guys. Just got back more tests results for you. All your blood screenings came back normal from all four suspects."

Grissom flipped through her results. "This is just a basic tox report. I want to know what kinds of medications these guys were on and how much."

Sara looked at her boss with skepticism. "That'll take some time. But, we can take their prescriptions and match them up to the levels in their blood stream. See if any one of them were given the wrong dose."

"Do that. Something's not adding up here. We have conflicting sets of behavior," Grissom instructed.

Sara cast a look at both men. "It seems fairly obvious, Grissom. All four patients went wild and attacked their doctor. We may never know who actually delivered the fatal blow. Nothing contradictory about rage."

Grissom started for the door. "I think something more sinister was involved then just four patients losing control in an unauthorized group therapy session in the middle of the night. There has to be a trigger, some kind of motive. We need to dig deeper."

"That's what I like to hear!"

The three criminalists turned in unison to the obviously cheery voice of the Sheriff. Two other politicians with a collective smug sense of importance filtered into the now cramped room, all enthusiastically listening to the ringleader of the circus.

The gloating politician turned to his cronies. "Gentlemen, this is Gil Grissom, supervisor of the Graveyard shift and …" The man paused, searching for the names of his supposed employees, but after a beat recovered. "Nick Stokes and Sara Sidle."

The group swarmed around the set of CSIs peering at the bulletin board, shrinking back slightly at the crime scene photos. The duo listened intently as the Sheriff rattled off statistics of the lab, crime solve rates and other tidbits that only served to irritate the scientists as they tried to exit. One of the visitors, a man in a bad navy suit, with thin wavy hair managed to scurry over towards the younger CSIs.

Obviously the pencil pusher had a staring problem as his eyes were focused intently on Nick. The politician's oily smile served to grate on the Texan. In the midst of the Sheriff's endless accolades and ass kissing Nick had enough.

"Something on your mind, sir?" he asked, serving to cut off the Sheriff's little diatribe of bullshit.

Grissom seemed two-thirds relieved at the interruption and one part annoyed at the tone of Nick's question. The Sheriff looked somewhat perturbed, sending a scathing look at the supervisor.

"My name's Peter Harris, Mr. Stokes. I think we've talked on the phone a few times." The man oozed a car salesman- type vibe, which served to fit in with his overly macho handshake.

Nick smiled politely, accepting the gesture. "No, name doesn't ring a bell."

The politician laughed louder and longer than needed, a deep nasally shrill noise. "I've tried to pull you away from your job long enough to sit down with one of my PR people. You know get an exposé written on ya." The man clapped the back of Nick's shoulder like some long lost buddy.

Nick's smile slowly faded, not looking too amused, but played along just a bit more. "Um, I think you must have me mixed up with someone else. I'm just someone doing their job."

Harris just winked. "Riiiiight. No, really. Mr. Stokes, I think it would do the department a lot of good to get a positive spin on everything that happened last summer and all. Sort of turn lemons into lemonade."

"You've got to be kidding me," Sara began to advance on the other man.

Grissom stepped in front of her, his hand on her shoulder as he turned towards the offending bureaucrat. "My CSIs are busy on a case, hard at work for all the nice tax payers out there."

Harris gave the supervisor a placating smile. "But of course, Mr. Grissom. We'll let you get back to your duties."

The three of them proceeded out the door, while Harris snagged Nick by his elbow. "Seriously, Mr. Stokes. I'd advise you to stop by. I mean with all the money and extended budget set up by your supervisor to make sure everyone works in pairs from now on...

Nick yanked his arm away, causing a bewildered expression from the shark-like Harris. Grissom stepped in front, blocking both men from any potential confrontation. "Nick isn't going to do any interviews for anyone. Why don't you go find Conrad Ecklie? I'm sure he's full of ideas for PR."

The trio finally escaped the conference room, gathering in the hallway to go over tasks for the rest of the morning. Grissom looked at his watch rolling his eyes at how much time was wasted. "Sara, please follow up on those tox screens. I want to know all levels of any drugs, and I mean any."

Sara didn't look pleased by the assignment, meaning hours upon hours pouring over machines and results, like looking for a needle in haystack.

Grissom blew out a long breath as his eyes followed her away. He looked up at his co-worker. "Come on, we need to get going."

Nick stood awkwardly in the middle of the corridor looking at his boss, his jaw clenched incredibly tight. "Grissom. I can handle my own battles; you don't get to choose which ones I fight."

Grissom stood silently for a moment. The two men's dispositions oddly similar to a pair of school children uneasy about who should walk away first. His subordinate's expression slowly melted back to his casual calm exterior.

Nick flashed him an uneasy smile. "Meet you over at the hospital?"

Grissom nodded, not sure how to respond back to _normal_ Nick mode. Gil Grissom wasn't sure if he had simply witnessed a crack in Nick's wall of defenses, or a private view of what was truly brewing on the inside.

* * *

The Reynolds Institute wasn't as foreboding in the morning. The building didn't loom like some asylum ripped out of the pages of a cheap pulp horror novel. The staff exuded tranquility; the color scheme worked its magic in the daylight, radiating comfort in the lobby. Activity gave the place a pulse, with anxious families awaiting visitors' rights.

Both men waited for another _escort_. A Latino man strolled over, winking at a female co-worker as she went by. He shook each CSI's hand enthusiastically. The young buck looked like had just walked off a beach in Miami. Several tattoos peeked out from one of his dark-tanned, golden arms. A heavy single gold chain rattled around as he walked, and the goat -T was as neatly trimmed as was his uber suave hair cut, with a overabundances of style gel.

"My name's Franco Altos Martinez, but just call me Franco."

Both men returned strong grips, Nick unable to get the mental image of this wanna-be pimp with fuzzy hat, and oversized purple zoot suit out of his head. Franco obviously hit the gym a lot, sort of like a miniature pit bull as Nick sort of towered over him.

All three men entered the heavily secured fourth floor stopping once again at the final checkpoint.

"I'm sorry Sir. Your weapon will need to stay with me. No firearms allowed past this point."

Nick smiled, knowing that there was a mix up, but aware of the guy's job. "I work for the LVPD. I'm authorized to carry this."

The guard returned the smile, sympathy for the situation etched into his heavy features. "I understand that, Sir. However, this is a privately run faculty and you are scheduled to conduct interviews with the patients. No weapons allowed past this check point."

Grissom stood there, not wanting to intercede. Nick's lower jaw opened as he gnawed at his bottom lip, all the while nodding. "All right." He pulled out his service piece, checked the safety and handed it to the guard carefully.

"I appreciate this, Sir. It'll be here when you come back."

Nick's eyes watched his weapon get locked up into a safe behind one of the X-Ray machines, his gaze resting there for a few moments, then followed his supervisor through the rest of the procedures. Guns were not allowed in interrogation rooms at the Vegas Police station because a prisoner could grab the weapon and use it against them during interviews. The same sort of safety standards had to be followed to the letter at a place like this with the possibility of more volatile situations.

The corridors still housed hidden cells of faceless instigators of the most terrible violence. Nick turned his head suddenly, ears perked, at the strange sounds escaping a few of the rooms. His imagination twisting faint voices into more sinister situations from behind locked doors. .

Franco used his key card to unlock the door of a kind of interview room. Instead of Dr. Rhodes, another physician paced restlessly back and forth behind a long oak table with three hard plastic chairs situated around it.

The man stared at them with an accusing look, checking his watch and rolling his eyes. "Finally. I do appreciate the seriousness of this situation, officers, but really. I'm pressed for time and yet I'm tied to this office until your interviews are done."

The brusque man leaned on the edge of the table, one leg crossed as he tapped a gold pen on his chin in impatience.

Grissom didn't apologize as he set his kit on the table and pulled out a notebook. "I'm Gil Grissom and this is Nick Stokes from the crime lab. I understand you will be here when we conduct our needed investigation."

"Yes, yes. I'm Dr Robert Stanfield," he said clicking the writing utensil along his teeth.

Nick flinched at the grating noise of metal along enamel. He cleared his throat, "Habit?"

The dorky man pulled the offending object out of his mouth. "I guess." He straightened in his chair. "This pen was used to sign my first copyrighted article for the _New England Journal of Medicine_." He smiled. "Ten years ago."

Nick nodded politely as he took out a tape recorder and set up the equipment. Grissom and the doctor discussed the arrangements for the interviews. Each patient would be brought in restraints, and with a guard for everyone's protection.

Dr. Stanfield was a tall gentleman, a bit heavier set than his boss and looked more a professor lecturing before a large class. He wore a white shirt with a brown sweater vest, a checkered tie stuffed under it. Crazy, brown curly hair stuck up all over the place; obviously no amount of hair gel could calm it. Thick nerdy-looking glasses that seemed too big for his head kept slipping down as he spoke in an animated way.

"All right. Let's get to brass tacks. I've overseen most of these men's care with my other colleague."

Nick and Grissom took seats behind the table; Dr. Stanfield remained standing with folded arms in the corner of the room. He flipped though a spiral chart. "Patient 340057 will be first."

Nick tapped the table with his fingers. "Which one is that?"

The doctor looked bewildered for a second as Nick leaned on his elbows. "Which patient?"

Dr. Stanfield mumbled under his breath. "Son, I deal with too many patients to memorize their names."

The door to the room opened as a guard carefully guided Sheldon Tanner inside. The man stumbled as if off balance and was none too gently seated. His eyes lazily scanned the room and he smiled at both investigators.

"Mr. Tanner, I'm Grissom and this is Nick from the Las Vegas Crime lab. We're here to ask you a few questions about last night."

Sheldon Tanner grinned, leaning forward almost out of his seat. Dazed eyes squinted as he struggled to focus on the supervisor. His blond bangs fell in front of his face; a slight amount of drool ran down the end of one lip.

Grissom observed the man, clearly trying to determine if the patient was fit for questioning. "Mr. Tanner, can you hear me?" he asked in a loud, clear voice.

Sheldon bobbled his head enthusiastically, smiling, then letting out a soft chuckle. "I can hear just fine. But ...but you're quite fuzzy looking." Another snort followed closely by a full on giggle streak.

Grissom smiled. "Why is that?"

Sheldon shook his head, hair and blubbering cheeks reminiscent of a wet dog. "Don't have my glasses. Lost them."

"Did you lose them last night?"

Sheldon swayed in his seat, giving them another dopey grin.

Nick felt his shoulders drop at the idea of an interview with a person who wasn't capable of cognizant thought. He stole a look at the attending physician who leaned into the wall; his bored expression served to irritate him.

"Do you remember what you were doing when you lost your glasses, Sheldon?" Grissom asked, patient and calm in his demeanor.

The patient gazed at the supervisor, his concentration a haze of thick molasses. Grissom repeated the question several times.

Sheldon's weight and lean drifted dangerously to one side of the chair, but then he bolted up. "No! I didn't lie! I don't know where they are!" he screamed. Franco shoved him back into the hard plastic. The guard took only minuscule steps back as he prepared for any further outbursts.

Grissom waved the guard off, despite the patient's now intense rocking back and forth in his chair as he franticly looked around the room.

"I know you didn't lose them on purpose. Did they fall off?" Grissom asked curiously. The criminalist kept the normal cadence to his voice, despite the sudden change from his suspect.

Sheldon squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head back and forth like a kid refusing supper at the table. "They make me look stupid. All the girls at school make fun of me."

Sheldon's body stiffened, his aggravation melted away as a cold small smile barely met the ends of his lips. He lowered his voice and looked straight at the entomologist. "Women don't call me names anymore," he whispered.

Grissom tilted his head, leaning closer to listen at the softer, almost smug tone.

"Did Dr. Kincaid say something about your glasses? Remind you of all those women who tormented you?"

Sheldon shook his head absently. "All I could do was just laugh at them. At their pitiful words and screams. The bitches tried to get back at me, but all I did was make them repent their ugliness."

"When did they try to get back at you, Sheldon?" Grissom tried to steer the conversation towards the murder, to find a connection to the ramble.

"Last night. All of them." The man let his head bob on his neck in a fit of restlessness.

Grissom tried to prod him along, but the patient's agitation stilled to abrupt motionlessness. The supervisor pressed on, changing tones, switching up words. Minutes fell to the wayside. Sheldon Tanner's muscles turned to mush, his posture slumping into the chair.

Nick stared at his boss, sharing disappointment and annoyance at the lack of a response.  
Another few minutes passed and Grissom turned in his seat towards the attending physician. "Is this man on any medication?"

Dr Stanfield snorted. "Of course he is. Normal regimen, Dr. Grissom."

"Does he usually go through such shifts in behavior?"

The other man shuffled his legs. "When do any of them not?" Sighing the doctor stood straighter. "Sheldon typically isn't this dodgy. He's normally quite lucid." The man shrugged. "Could be a result from the sedation."

Grissom instructed the guard that this particular interview was complete. The Latino roused Sheldon out of his chair, the former geek's eyes fluttered as he gave both men a lopsided, almost drunken grin. He shuffled away, whistling a tune as he was escorted back to the infirmary.

Dr. Stanfield glanced at his clipboard with resignation. "Next contestant is 436578."

Nick refrained from a biting comment. "These guys were part of one of your research projects. Don't you think it would be beneficial to learn their names?"

The doctor eyed Nick in annoyance. "This patient didn't fit the criteria for my study. So, no, I didn't."

The younger criminalist didn't get a word in, when the door opened to reveal Robert Patterson, flanked by two guards. Franco and the new security person held firm grips around each elbow of the suspect. Robert Patterson's chin jutted up in the air, sneering at the staff and stood defiantly in front of the chair.

"Take a seat, Robert," the Latino instructed.

Patterson kicked at the chair. "You going to tie me to it?"

"Behave, or we'll get Angelo to send you back to dreamland where you belong!" the other, bulkier guard barked.

"Gentlemen." Grissom tried to rein things in before a confrontation broke out.

Patterson twisted and squirmed from the men's grasps and plunked down on the hard plastic. "Sorry if I didn't bow before the court. My zookeepers might mistake my gesture for an invitation," he leered.

Nick looked at the suspect coolly as his boss informed the man for their reason for being here. Patterson looked unimpressed and too engrossed at sneering at Dr. Stanfield to care. The man's head looked like it was shaved, nearly bald, with dark brown eyes. He was built larger than the young CSI, although his stature was hard to gauge under the backwards-like coat refraining movement. He seemed close to Grissom's age; hard to tell as prison, even mental wards, tend to speed up the aging process.

"Mr. Patterson, we're here to ask you some questions about last night." Grissom's voice was much more commanding with this suspect. His face betrayed no reaction to the continued intimidation tactics of the hostile man.

Patterson face twitched at the statement, eyes squinting with the tic, the only sign that the topic unnerved him.

"You want to tell me what happened last night?"

"No."

Grissom held up his hand. "Why not?"

Patterson's face twitched again, his eyes darted at each person in the room. "You're the scientist, you tell me."

"I would rather hear your version."

The man fussed with his straitjacket furiously struggling against the constriction of movement. He growled, frustrated. "Do you really want to talk with one of the freaks and see what venom spills forth from the wicked tongue? I hear crime scene investigators are good at telling stories."

Grissom pointed to his folder. "The evidence speaks for me, Sir. It bears all the needed chapters."

Laughter filled the room. "Masters of twisting words, manipulation and conspiracy."

"What about wounds? Care to explain why your knuckles show signs of injury?"

Patterson snickered. "Don't know. I never know when my animal is released."

"Tell us about your animal," the entomologist encouraged.

The suspect thrashed in his seat, then barked at the guards who approached his jerking form.

Grissom waved them off again, and the man growled and snapped his teeth at their retreat. Patterson turned and stared at the CSI. "You don't want to know 'bout my beast. When it's released, its rage cannot be abated. It hunts with no feeling and no remorse."

"What does it seek?"

"Revenge," he hissed.

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

Patterson stood up, alarming the jittery security, but Grissom eyed them, instructing them to remain where they were. The suspect methodically took one step at a time towards the table, both criminalists seated behind the flimsy barrier. The suspect moved until his waist hit the edge of the furniture and bent over, wetting his lips as he loomed closer.

"Revenge for being born, Mr. Grissom."

Nick shifted in his seat, body ready to react, one eye on the criminalist, the other on his boss who sat relaxed, unaffected. Grissom's breathing was steady, body relaxed except for a slight tilt of the head in curiosity.

The supervisor didn't react; he just locked eyes with the suspect who stood to his full height and blew a kiss at the attending physician buffered behind the CSIs.

"Want to tell us why your animal mauled your doctor in the middle of the night?" Nick asked, stretching across the table to meet the man's glare without hesitation.

Patterson cracked a smile. "The pretty one speaks. Did your master give you permission, boy?"

Grissom never took his eyes off the suspect who was now focused on the other criminalist. Nick didn't act rattled, and merely shrugged. "Most animals have leashes. What did you do when it got away from you?"

The older man spoke through gritted teeth. "I don't know."

Nick laughed, throwing his hands up. "What? Dr. Kincaid opened your cage and let it out? You don't seem the type of guy to allow a lab coat to get the best of you."

Patterson's face pinched again. "Its all very...v-v-very fuzzy."

"Yeah?" Nick mocked. "Your _animal _or the memory of pounding away at the only person who cared about helping you?"

The suspect pushed at the table with his waist, but it didn't budge. "The animal d-d-does what I tell it t-to do! Unless it's fucked with by people like you!"

Nick egged on, knowing it kept the suspect off balance. "So, Dr. Kincaid pissed you off, or you told your murderous beast to tear him apart and your buddies piled in right afterwards?"

Patterson faltered, mashing his teeth together, the guards inching closer.

"Which is it? I mean, you don't deny you did it. It feel good to beat up a defenseless man? Four people on one." Nick poured on the sarcasm, his superior's eyes drifting between them.

Patterson blew out a large breath, sneering. "I become one with the animal; we feed off each other- off our anger. T-This time…" He shook his head. "He went off without me."

"What do you mean?" Grissom asked redirecting the suspect.

"H-h-he didn't let me go with him. I didn't enjoy the kill this time."

Nick risked a glance at Grissom who gave him a subtle nod. The younger criminalist snapped his fingers, earning a furious look from the frustrated man. "You did enjoy your killing. Blood doesn't lie."

"No! N-n-no, I didn't! How can I enjoy something I d-d-don't remember?" The older man kicked at the table leg and lunged at both criminalists before being pulled back by four hands of the guards. Patterson bellowed and screamed. "I didn't get to enjoy it, didn't get to bask in all of its carnage. I-I-I was d-d-denied!"

Franco and the other guard slammed the combative man back into his chair and held him there.

"That's enough. Take Mr. Peterson, back to his cell," Dr. Stanfield instructed.

Both men struggled to maneuver the fully agitated patient.

"Wait!" Grissom spun around at the physician. "We're not done with him."

The attending pushed his glasses over his nose. "Oh, yes you are. This interview is over. This man may be a suspect, but I won't stand here as you try to goad him into another fit."

Grissom glared at the lab coat and moved out from behind the table before the other man could be dragged away.

"What about the other patients? Did they help your animal kill Dr Kincaid?"

Robert Patterson quit his struggles completely and laughed. "The others? They have nothing on my animal. Don't worry about them. Only one to worry about is Ivan."

Grissom followed the guards and the prisoner out the door, Nick closely behind them. Dr. Stanfield followed as he ushered his staff to take his patient away. Grissom was undaunted as he ignored the seething attending for agitating a dangerous patient.

Grissom was in fast pursuit, the guards too busy with holding the man still. "Why should I worry about Ivan?"

The security men held onto the man, letting the CSI know he had two seconds to speak to the deranged suspect, despite the evil glare they earned from Stanfield.

Patterson quit fighting his captors and smiled. "Ivan told me he has plans."

Grissom stood there quietly. "For what?"

The suspect leaned towards and whispered. "He has plans for the Blue Eyed Devil."

* * *

A/N:

Thanks to everyone who has stuck through this, I know it is long in the tooth, but there is a method to my madness.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Nick waited for his supervisor as Dr. Stanfield paced along the hallway. Grissom nodded for his co-worker to come over, leaning his weight against the brick wall behind him. Nick cast a backwards glance at the physician's agitation and frowned, shaking his head.

"You think he'd be more cooperative," Nick remarked dryly.

Grissom looked thoughtful. "You took a risk spurring Patterson on like that."

Nick matched the confident stance of his superior. "That man has spent the last few years dodging blame for his actions because he can't own up to his crimes. He's surrounded by shrinks and doctors with pills in one hand, while _discussing_ motivations that give him latitude and justifications in the other." He shrugged. "The way the interview was progressing, it seemed the only thing that might shake loose some answers was…"

"Bad cop, Good cop?" Grissom asked holding his gaze.

Nick's head slowly tilted to the right, a motion he did when accepting an answer without modesty. "Sort of. People who are blindsided or caught off guard tend to expose truer feelings or intentions."

"Or bottle their emotions up even more," Grissom replied automatically.

Nick stood silently and cleared his throat. "You believe his inability to remember last night?"

"I'm not going to make an assumption until I have a chance to study Kincaid's notes on these guys. See if this was part of his pattern of behavior."

Nick opened his mouth to add a comment when they were interrupted.

"Why does it matter?"

Both CSIs turned to face the baffled look of the nerdy Dr. Stanfield, fingers adjusting his heavy glasses. "Those four patients murdered my co-worker and friend. You have physical evidence connecting them to the crime. They were the only four people in that room. I thought this would be an open and shut case."

Grissom tried to answer in a respectful tone. "Our job is to determine how Dr. Kincaid was killed. We're not sure if all four patients had a hand in his death. We're still gathering and processing evidence and these interviews might shed some much needed light."

Stanfield balled his hands into fists, the first real emotion from the man other then petulance. "Just do your jobs professionally. I still have to work with these patients day in and out. I don't need any more repeats of unnecessary provocation. Your actions could have direct consequences with this hospital's reputation. We depend on the grants and research here to keep this facility running.."

"What about the lasting effects for Dr. Kincaid's family? You thought about those?" Nick asked.

The physician gave him a smug look. "Dr. Kincaid had no family. This hospital and his work were his life. The treatments here can have profound impacts on the patients here, to give them the needed help and ability to fight their illnesses."

Nick wet his lips, his voice softer. "Too bad their victims don't get the same type of resources or devotion after the crime is over."

Stanfield stalked back towards the interview room. "I've got a meeting with an important drug company about my study. You've still got two more interviews. Can we hurry this along?" He enforced his request by pointing to the entrance to the room.

Nick's face betrayed his feelings, but he calmed once he took his seat. Grissom studied both men from the doorway, deciding when he could address what he thought was Nick's biased emotions towards the mentally disturbed.

* * *

The two criminalists had settled down at the table and the head of the hospital joined the group to stand next to his colleague. Dr's Stanfield and Rhodes discussed the upcoming set of visitors and their plans for dinner later on. The head of the facility had assured both CSIs that he merely wanted to observe aspects of the unfolding case, so he could help them with any other resources to aid the investigation.

Dr Stanfield flipped through his clipboard, the papers crackling in the silence of the room. "Patient 4575895." He glared at Nick when he was done.

The head honcho took the offered clipboard and cleared his throat. "Leon Stoyanov. I've asked for him to be accompanied by three guards; one will be outside the door if he's needed."

Leon Stoyanov entered the interview room, his escort of guards maneuvering him towards his seat. Stoyanov's broad shoulders and thick arms made his straight-jacket look as effective as paper mache. His unshaven salt and pepper whiskers and dark bruises gave his face an even more rugged appearance. His thick, dark shaggy hair looked unruly, like a pelt on a werewolf.

Narrow steely eyes studied each individual in the room silently. A sharp, deadly mind sized everyone up in a matter of seconds. Stoyanov cracked his neck from side to side and leaned back into his chair, almost daring someone to speak.

"Mr. Stoyanov, I'm Gil Grissom and this is Nick Stokes with the crime lab. We're here to ask you a few questions."

The Russian did not fuss in his chair, but spoke with a low, gruff voice. "No, you're not."

Grissom interlined his fingers along the desk. "Yes, we are here to talk to you about what happened last night."

"What happened…" The brusque man shrugged. "Happened."

"Do you mind filling us in then?"

Stoyanov made a clicking sound with his tongue, running it along the inside of his teeth. "It was all about a larger plan. A...more evil deed."

Grissom prepared for the tale. "What plan?"

The beast of a man flared his nostrils. "Yours. I knew you were coming back."

Nick folded his arms along his chest, his face a scowl. Grissom didn't notice as he studied the suspect, not bothered by his words. "I'm here because of what happened to Dr. Kincaid."

"You appeared in my dreams," the brutish man stated.

"You were under heavy sedation after you resisted the guards. You saw me then when I examined you for evidence."

"_Nyet_. When I peered into the blue eyes of the devil, I knew you were here to finish your plans. As an instigator of death, you reap destruction along the path." Stoyanov leaned, his biceps bulging taut under the restraints. "I do not fear Hell. You sought me out and I am here." A twisted smile formed on the battered face.

Grissom sensed Nick's unease in the chair next to him. He risked a quick glance to instruct stillness at a moment of tricky head games. The younger CSI kept calm, but it was obvious he didn't appreciate the gesture.

The Russian's eyes followed the movement, his interest piqued. "The Devil  
has an apprentice, yes?"

Nick was not easily put off by suspects. "No. I'm a scientist along with my co-worker."

The suspect held an aura of command: the vein on the side of his head pulsed visibly beneath skin. "The Devil always has minions to do as commanded. Evil always tugs at the strings of the weak."

Nick held the intense gaze, not reacting to the verbal barb. "Is that how you view yourself? The strong overpowering the weak like Dr. Kincaid?"

"I had no problem with the doctor. He was not smart enough to match wits with me. He was no threat." The suspect peered steadfastly at the supervisor. "Him, however… You come here to try to take me with you to your fiery pit, but I will defeat you. I'm more evil than even then this Devil."

Nick didn't hide his disbelief at such ramblings; the ends of his mouth twisting. The Russian focused back at the younger criminalist. "Do not dismiss me, youngling. Your tools of unmasking death do not frighten me. You are slowly boiling within from your own fear. You can not hide it. It oozes from your human body."

Nick felt his body become isotonic , but held back any outward reaction. The observant prisoner grinned, noting the tenser posture. "Your soul is being eaten alive." The man's eyes darted towards the supervisor. "Don't let the Devil hold you back, young one. His influence must be purged."

The man shifted his weight, the chair squeaking with the movement. "I will help sever your connection. Then you'll be set free."

Grissom tried to gain control of the interview but all of his further questions were greeted by silence and cool glares. The suspect didn't invoke any more theories nor did he react to any prodding. He seemed to study the two CSIs, eyes narrowing and then drifting off to gaze at the other occupants in the room.

After another half an hour Grissom sighed inwardly and asked for the prisoner to be escorted back to his cell. The guards pulled Ivan to his feet, the brute making a show that he was in control of when he left. He moved only when all three security men shoved him forcefully and even then one got the impression he _let_ them escort him into the hallway.

Dr. Stanfield spoke with his boss concerning his need to leave and work on some paper for a review, while Grissom walked over towards his co-worker, jaw working back and forth.

"You've been oddly hostile during these interviews, Nick. You've got to get a better handle on your emotions, or suspects will continue to pick up on your tells. You've encountered a lot worse offenders in the past years then anyone we've talked today."

Nick shook his head. "I don't think I've been out of line. Ivan seems pretty fixated on you. I'd be careful."

The supervisor gave him an un-amused expression. "Stoyanov proved he's in control of his actions. He demonstrated the calculated thought necessary to commit the crime, but he's too much in control."

"He murdered at least seven people, Man. How is he _not_ capable of what happened?" Nick challenged.

"He was meticulous in his crimes. Kept his victims for hours, torturing them, reveling in his ability to exact pain and ultimate control. He's too much of a sociopath to give into primal rage."

Nick nodded, giving the words time to sink in. "Then what are you suggesting?"

Grissom looked lost. "I don't know, but we're still missing something."

Nick's response was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. "Stokes. I can barely hear ya…hold on."

Grissom ignored the sets of eyes on his back, sighing outwardly this time. Before he could ask the two physicians what was on their minds, Nick finished his brief phone call. The Texan walked over towards his boss.

"That was Sara, could barely hear her. Place has bad reception." After getting a pointed look, Nick grinned slightly. "Anyway, she wanted me to know that shard of glass I found on the floor didn't match up to any of the glass cabinets. It belonged to a camera lens."

That got Grissom's attention. "Really?" He nodded at Nick's enthusiasm. "That means that Kincaid might have been taping this particular session."

Nick glanced over at the doctors who whispered between them, and stepped closer to Grissom not wanting his words to carry. "If it wasn't from a previous session, then that means someone else was in that room after the crime. Another murder suspect or someone wanted to cover up what was filmed."

Grissom matched the low voice. "We need to dig more into the reason why this therapy session was held in the middle of the night."

Dr. Rhodes approached the criminalists with a smile. "Well, you've got one last interview. I need to get back to my rounds. I'll leave you in capable hands."

The head of the facility left the room and Dr. Stanfield cleared his throat loudly. "Patient 575754."

Nick turned to glare at the man, with a smug smile of his own. "Joseph Brighten."

* * *

Joseph Brighten had brown eyes. Nick had not noticed before because the first encounter had been when the man had been literally disconnected from his body; a mind filled with artificial sleep, although this wasn't much different. The guy might as well been some sort of walking mummy, a body wrapped together in protective gear, nothing but an empty shell. Usual introductions were made, but this time no one was home. Just a vacancy sign behind dulled reflexes.

_No, it wasn't the medication. No, he had not spoken in about a week. One of his 'moods.'_ Dr. Stanfield was as helpful as a student on the last day of school.

Grissom varied his questions, tone, but to no avail. Nothing. No recognition, just the pale face of Mr. Everyday Joe. Nick chuckled on the inside; the staff called him, Joey. It certainly fit. At least this version. Who knew what lay beneath...something, a gut feeling, told him this guy wasn't like the others.

Grissom relented in his chair, lips pursed to have the suspect dismissed when Nick rose from, passed the table and knelt in front of the subdued patient.

"Hey, Joey. I'm Nick." He kept his voice soft, casual.

The CSI smiled, looking about the room. "Kind of a dull place." He licked his lips. "Guess its a hell of a lot better than where you were last night."

Nothing. Blank stare; eyes that didn't make contact.

Nick could picture the sort of worried glare being burned into the back of his skull but he wasn't going to worry about that right now.

He swallowed, sighing heavily, broadcasting in waves a rare sort of openness. "You tried to tell me something the other night. I'm all ears, if you want to give it another whirl." He tried to give a slight grin, eyes intently focused.

The empty orbs move downward, a spark of something inside, a lazy gaze. Nick seized the opportunity. "I try to solve puzzles and I've got a lot of little pieces. Parts of it tell  
me you tried to help."

Nick could hear heavy breathing from behind him, almost picturing a scowl, disappointment, but he didn't care. "Your finger prints were on a chair leg. You hit Ivan with it...can you tell me why?"

Silence greeted his question; the eyes drifting away, staring off into space. A slight facial twitch, followed by a tic to the edge of the man's mouth. Nick squinted, thinking back to the odd spasms from the previous encounter.

Nothing. Nick stared at the floor, feeling his body sag. Gathering his wits and looking back up, he plastered on a semi-genuine smile. "All right. You might be tired; maybe we'll talk again later."

Nick rose to his feet, for the briefest of moments patted the prisoner on the shoulder, then quickly stuffed his hands into his pockets. He signaled the guard to take the suspect away. The security man guided the patient, who shuffled on autopilot out the door.

"We done here?" Dr. Stanfield's voice interrupted the silence and despair of the room.

Nick twirled around, more energized then he'd been in days. "No, I'm afraid not."

His statement caused both men in the room to stare at him puzzled; annoyance was like a bitter afterthought.

"Those the patient files?" Nick pointed at the box of stacks of folders left by the director.

"Yes," the impatient physician answered.

Nick strolled over, picking apart folders, his boss's gaze on him throughout his movements. Nick rifled through the stack of documents on Joseph Brighten. "Does Joey have any friends here? Anyone he talks to on a regular basis?"

The doctor huffed, rubbing his temples. "I have no idea, Mr. Stokes. I don't…"

"Yeah, I know you don't get to _know _your patients," he stated, not looking up. "Joey stays on the third floor, right?"

"Yes," the huffy man repeated.

Nick inhaled deeply, calming his nerves. "That's treated like general population, right?"

"Yes," this time drawn out with impatience.

Nick shook his head. "What about roommates? Did Brighten have one?"

The physician ran his hand through his curly locks. "Yes, he did. All patients on the third floor share cells."

"Can we speak to him?" Nick looked over at his supervisor for the first time, noting his constant silence. He saw a questioning expression, but was being allowed a bit of leeway.

Dr. Stanfield, rubbed at his temples. "I guess. He's under another physician's care. If you want to waste more time, feel free. Although, its not going to bother me. I'll be glad to let someone else baby-sit you guys."

Nick didn't look up. "Good. Think we could expedite matters?"

Stanfield glared at him, but gave a fake smile. "Sure. I'll go find whomever is supervising him, inform him of the situation, and let you two play shrink."

"One more question."

The man glared at him.

"Any of the four suspects suffer any nerve disorders?" He smiled. "That you know of?"

"No."

Nick stared, but said nothing else.

The irritable man left, taking a bit of Nick's foul mood with him. The CSI thumbed through more papers, aware of the elephant in the room. After several more minutes of silence, he looked up.

"You waiting until we get back to the lab?"

Grissom's poker face remained. "For what?"

Nick felt the frustration building and normally he would attack his misgivings full force, but shrugged it off. "Nothing."

Grissom rose out of his seat, stretching a stiff back. "You want to see if Brighten's roommate has some insight into his state of being. Trying to learn more on the subject?"

Nick didn't look up, feigning interest in the pages of scribbled notes. "That's what you taught us."

The younger criminalist didn't see the slight acceptance. "Maybe. It would appear you have a keener interest in this particular suspect though."

Nick shook his head, not even aware of the defensive response. "No. I mean, I think he's the best link to what happened."

"You don't think he was involved, even though there isn't much to go on saying that he wasn't."

Nick shrugged. "Got to play your hunches. If you can't trust your instincts, then all you got are--"

"Facts."

Nick didn't look up.

"Did you know you called him by his nickname?"

It was a casual enough question, but he felt severely annoyed by it. An odd hush filled the room, the uncomfortable weight a familiar feeling.

Time didn't seem very fluid, but soon enough the duo were greeted by a young doctor, a black man in his thirties. He smiled warmly at the criminalists, a stark contrast to the previous staff members. He looked more like a pediatrician; humble demeanor, calm eyes.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Timothy Bale, but just call me Tim. I'm not into formalities."

Nick took the offered hand, instantly liking the more easygoing manner. "Nick Stokes."

The friendly doctor shook it with enthusiasm as he released the grip and looked over at the CSI somewhat puzzled.

"Gil Grissom," the supervisor introduced himself, his brow furrowed. "We meet before?" he asked.

Dr. Bale stood back staring at both men with an expression of slight confusion. "No...not that I recall." The man rubbed at his chin, looking like he was trying to solve a great mystery.

Nick shifted his feet with a small laugh. "Somethin' wrong, Doc?"

The physician tried to relax. "No. I mean...Stokes. Nick Stokes? From the Vegas Crime Lab, right?"

Nick gave him an uneasy grin, fluctuating around a grimace. He got this from time to time since last summer. "Yeah."

"And you're here because of Dr Kincaid's death."

Nick looked at his boss and back at the doctor. "Yes. We want to talk to Joseph Brightens' roommate. We...I think he might be able to shed some light on a few things."

The doctor quirked an eyebrow. "I understand. Mr. Brightens' cellmate transferred here a few months ago when I moved from a federal facility with him. I took a few of my patients along because of some of the studies here."

Nick nodded, glancing at his watch. "Cool. Is his roommate stable...er...I mean can we talk with him?"

Dr. Bale nodded. "Yes, of course. He suffers from delusions, but he's been very receptive to treatment. Um...I'm sorry, Mr. Stokes, but I'm still confused on why you want to speak to him...I mean...don't you think your co-worker should conduct the interview instead?"

Nick laughed, feeling bit peeved at such a suggestion. "I'm quite qualified to interview this patient."

Nick turned to Grissom. The supervisor had a growing uneasy expression, which served to only zap away any of his newly formed energy.

Dr Bale stared at Nick. "Um, you know that Joseph Brighten's bunkmate is someone you know?"

Nick laughed, glancing at both men who shared equal anxious expressions. He cleared his throat. "No." Nick cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Who is he?"

The physician looked totally confused. "Mr. Stokes. His cellmate is Nigel Crane."

* * *

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

"What?"

It was a simple word, despite how it stuttered through a suddenly parched throat. There was a long-familiar stare from many months, this time from a stranger. An equally uncomfortable silence fell on the room, the heaviness an old friend. To call this a tailspin would be the understatement of the year, but then this was only the first month on the calendar.

Nick could see a sort of dumb dawning on his supervisor's face, although the doctor in front of him had managed to hide his similar deer-in-headlights expression.

"I see," the doc stated.

Nick could feel an underlying of pity and it created an instant vacuum, swallowing all the shock and surprise, and stuffing into an overcrowded space in the pit of his stomach.

There was a hated tremor in his voice. "Nigel was transferred here. When?"

"Before the holidays, in late October. I oversaw his care at the State of Nevada Mercury Center and brought him with a few of my other patients."

"This is a private hospital for convicted felons with money. Nigel doesn't have any family." Nick said listlessly.

"Yes, but as his primary physician, if I felt some of the programs here would be beneficial, I was allowed to transfer him when I was offered a position here. Not all the inmates are here because of wealth. The research at this--"

The physician's explanation was interrupted by Nick's hand in the air, cutting him off. "Yeah, yeah. I've heard all about it." Nick looked up with a half-hearted apologetic expression for his rudeness.

Nick replayed the past few minutes of conversation in his head and looked from the physician towards Grissom, who merely reflected his trademark neutral expression. "Why did you think that you two had met before?" he asked, pointing his fingers back and forth between both men.

Grissom didn't bat an eyelash. "Name sounded familiar."

If it had been his supervisor's decision, Nick was sure it would have ended right there, just like everything else. A year ago, that's all it would have taken.

"That true?"

Dr. Bale wasn't exactly comfortable with this tension. Eyes drifted back and forth, obviously knowing there was some invisible line somewhere, and clueless as to where to walk.

"Well, most of my correspondence with Mr. Grissom was via e-mail," he said as he looked at the older man. "One phone call, but that was a few years ago. We never met."

Grissom grimaced slightly. "Sorry to have to have to do so under such circumstances."

Hearing Nigel Crane's name wasn't enough to make him violently ill, or rattle the cage of trapped old memories. It didn't even let loose the tendrils of paranoia and or fear that'd been long forgotten, shoved aside and stomped out. No, the name triggered nothing… but the almost casual conversation of the other two occupants in the room... Nick could hear the splinters breaking under the pressure of the most guarded restraint.

Nick looked at the doctor. "You tried to crawl inside Nigel's mind. Take him apart like a clock to see what made him tick?" Nick's voice was throaty; his eyes pits of ashen coal.

Grissom moved... finally. The man didn't respond to words, but he always sort of jumped when confronted by raw personal emotions, quick like a fireman confronting a blaze. "Nick, I was the primary on the Jane Galloway case. It was routine for me to handle all aspects concerning Crane's incarceration, including the psych evaluations." Grissom hesitated, lowering his voice. "You were the one who asked me to process your house solo, to oversee everything."

"Yeah, I did," he replied, voice thick.

"We made sure you didn't even have to testify. The case was airtight, so you could ..."

"So I could move on," Nick finished for him.

Grissom's next suggestion was softer. "Why don't you go back to the lab? We've got a split shift because of these interviews. You can help Sara with those tox screens. I can process the cells belonging to each suspect. They're not big; I can do them all myself."

Dr. Bale shuffled his feet, looking pensive. "I meet with Nigel later on today; you two could sit in and ask your questions then," the man suggested.

Grissom looked at the physician indicating with his eyes the need for privacy. The other man recognized it and excused himself and exited the room.

"Nick, I allowed some leeway when you suggested this additional interview. To gain insight into Brighten, however slim the relevancy might be on the case. Now, however, I think we should stick to the physical evidence."

"Grissom," Nick protested, the inflexion breaking slightly.

The supervisor wouldn't give an inch, his mind made up. "What was with your questions about neurological disease?"

If the younger criminalist had not felt like he was standing on a fault line, riddled with tremors, he might have pursued the argument. "Nothing. I mean..." Nick sighed. "Joey Brighten and our sex offender showed signals of a neurological problem; nothing conclusive, but the little facial tics were overt the other night."

Grissom seemed caught off guard. "I didn't notice."

Nick shook his head. "Observed a slightly less obvious twitch in Patterson."

Grissom hesitated. "Nothing in the files says that either man suffers from any neurological disorders. Something so significant would be detected by the various tests that are run on each prisoner. Some forms of dopamine can cause similar problems with people under anti-psychotic medications."

Nick shook his head. "I find it odd that three out of our four suspects are suffering from motor disorders."

Grissom's eyes brightened as the wheels in his heard turned. "Those tox screens need to be top priority. Look for false positives, signs of masking drugs, things that a prelim would skip. Run urine tests as well."

Grissom moved towards the table to gather his files. When he headed towards the door, Nick didn't move out of his path. Sensing things were not finished the supervisor waited for the other man to speak.

"I still think we should interview Nigel. He could provide us with information regarding Joey's behavior, or things the other man might have mentioned. No one else is going to be able to tell us what happened in that room."

"A possible missing video camera and its contents rivals any witness testimony. It's unbiased and records everything."

Grissom's simple dismissal of his idea added another layer of conflict within his churning insides. Nick shook his head. "I don't agree."

"It'll be noted, Nick. But under no circumstances are we interviewing Nigel Crane. For one, there's a conflict of interest. There's absolutely no basis for that avenue of the case."

"That wasn't your attitude before you found out who the cellmate was," Nick retorted.

Grissom got that gleam in his eye whenever he was about to chew someone's ass. "I granted you a bit of leeway when there was still a possibility it would add value to the case. You've been distracted during this investigation. You need to regain some focus. Even if I found some valid reason to interview Crane, I'd have to pull you off the case."

"He's a possible witness, not a suspect," Nick corrected him.

Grissom held up his hand, ending any further argument. "That's my final decision. Now go back to the lab, work on those tests and go home. Grab eight hours of sleep and then report to work at the beginning of Grave's schedule."

Nick stood motionless for a few seconds, a thousand thoughts roaring through his mind. Instead of pushing harder he turned around and left the interview room. He sought out a guard to escort him out, and like the night before returned to the Lab alone.

* * *

Nick looked for a quiet room in the lab to hole up for a few hours, a place not currently occupied with other criminalists. He had dumped a plethora of test requests, earning an evil glare from the techs. When he started to get insistent about the priority and even argued about the number, David Hodges of all people suggested he find somewhere to wait. The sheer amount would undoubtedly clog up the pipeline and machines for hours. Hodges wasn't known for his charity work, considering the man was working a double himself.

In order to preserve ruffled feathers he volunteered to help with some of the analyses, when one of the techs had argued the value of using up so many resources in such a damned narrow window of time. Nick didn't think his request was ridiculous, though he was dealing with day shift workers.

He spent the next few hours going through some of Dr. Kincaid's notes on the four suspects. Brass had dropped off a box after he served them with the needed warrant. Nick scribbled down notes, creating a timetable that corresponded with each patient's history. He also started a spreadsheet on one of the laptops to keep up with the slow trickle of lab results.

It felt good to be busy; it kept his mind from drifting, thinking too much about the last few hours. His head felt like it was about to explode, undoubtedly from being crammed with too many things left on a 'to do later' list. Nick glanced at his watch, his irritability seeping into his clenched fingers. Nick threw the pen down, the metal instrument already left a sore impression in the flesh of his fingers.

"You chewed up any more techs?"

Nick didn't hide his scowl at Sara's voice.

"You're never going to gain anything if you keep up with that winning personality," she teased.

Nick rubbed at his tense neck, but eyed her stack of folders. "What are you doing here so early?"

She smirked. "While you and Grissom work split shifts, I came in now, so there wasn't any dead time in between."

Nick took it all in stride. "You got something new on our house of quacks?"

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Want to play show and tell?"

Nick's eyes twinkled with a familiar swagger, even if it didn't accompany his usual smile.

Sara dropped her stack. "You first."

"All right" he drawled purposely. "All four suspects had high levels of dopamine in their blood."

Sara took the offered slip. "Dopamine isn't uncommon, Nick. All four patients are on some form of anti-psychotic drug. I ran a test verifying the levels of their daily meds, first thing. I got four matches, and nothing odd about them."

"Yeah, but your tests only searched for those specific drugs, to make sure they matched the prescriptions and dose. The overall dopamine levels are double of what they should be," Nick indicated towards when he turned his laptop screen over to her.

"Which means there was something else in their bloodstream." Sara's eyes were wide. "Wow, our prelim missed something."

Nick didn't hide his sarcastic pitch. "That's why I've been hovering around tox for so long."

Sara gave him a dirty look. "All right, anything else."

"Oh, yeah. Dr. Kincaid just recently took over our suspects' cases just a couple weeks ago. In fact, he petitioned to be their primary physician, as well as another list that was waiting Dr. Rhode's approval." Nick cocked his head. "I also can't find any of the paperwork for the reason. In Kincaid's personal notes, there's more than one mention of a formal complaint that he wrote on Dr. Rhode's ethics, but that's missing as well."

"Could be in the next batch of boxes?" Sara suggested.

"Nope. We'd have to seek Dr. Rhode's files; our warrant was for Kincaid's cases and patient information."

Sara didn't hide her enthusiasm. "I'll be sure to put in a call to Brass, to begin work on that." Grabbing a stool, she began explaining her own findings. "I worked on the body some more. I matched the last unidentified wound pattern on Kincaid's right hand."

Brown eyes looked at her expectantly. "Bite mark. All we need to do is match teeth impressions to find who inflicted that."

Nick looked less than thrilled at that possible test. Sara didn't blame him.

"The hairs Grissom found on the body belonged to Robert Patterson and Leon Stoyanov."

Nick folded his arms. "Not surprising; more and more things point to the brunt of the attack by those two."

Sara moved on to another set of notes. "I dug into Kincaid's normal files, since I was still waiting for his patient ones, which you've already combed through. He'd been at the center for five years and the only new project was a study with Dr. Rhodes and Stanfield on a revolutionary new anti-psychotic drug."

"Yeah?" Nick looked intrigued.

Sara flipped through her notebook. "If given a green light, which by all indications is almost a definite, all three men were about to gain one of the largest grants from the Vertex Pharmaceutical firm, as well as a potential million dollar deal if the drug was approved by the FDA."

"What? They discover a cure for the common cold?" Nick snorted.

"No. But one of the main problems with anti-psychotic drugs is side effects and the fact that there are so many of them for every single disorder. Phenothiazines are the main class of drug used with patients who suffer from psychosis. They block dopamine receptors; in a way shutting down emotional responses," Sara explained.

"Yeah. The drug than can reduce the intensity of schizophrenic delusions and hallucinations." Nick looked thoughtful. "Also creates the hordes of mindless zombies; no way to be deluded when you're not even on the same plane as everyone else."

Sara shot him an expression of her own regarding his dry humor. "When it comes to effectively decreasing agitation and hostility, then there are not many choices. New generations of drugs are supposed to cut down on the toxicity and bad side effects. Once you strip away paranoia, then you can treat people with psychotherapy."

Nick didn't look at her, his doubt clearly obvious. "Some things are biological, others are environmentally created. Testing a drug like this makes sense on Ivan and Patterson, our stuttering killer, but Joey sufferers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and our sexual offender, Tanner..." Nick shrugged. "Those guys don't fit the bill for that type of drug  
therapy."

Sara wasn't totally swayed by his logic. "Only so much science can do to cure insanity, Nick. Some things that can't be cured can only be debated and theorized by thinkers like Freud and Maslow."

Nick drifted off, those words echoing over and over in his head. Suddenly his distractions were waning from rawer issues. He must have zoned out, because he felt a hand on his shoulder, and Sara's worried eyes. He blinked at her, eyebrows knitted, perplexed.

"I called out your name...you didn't answer me."

Nick laughed it off, but his smile didn't seem to wipe away the concerned expression. "Sorry."

Sara looked back at his laptop and then the time. "Maybe you ought to go home. The lab will be backed up a with your zillion long list of possible chemicals to look for; not like we have one machine that can spit them all out at once. Grissom might have found something in the cells of our four patients."

"I doubt any of our esteemed suspects kept notes on what was going inside their brains. Since Dr's. Jeckle and Hyde can't figure that out." Nick piled a few of his notes to take home with him.

Sara wasn't going to let him off the hook. "Obviously you guys didn't get very far in the interviews; it's not like one of them can tell us what happened. I agree there was something pretty fishy going on, but if the doctors are acting like everything is hunky dory, there isn't anyone reliable to paint us a different picture."

"We need to find out why Dr. Kincaid was conducting his black ops meeting." Nick scribbled down something on a piece of paper. "Here's my password; feel free to input any more tox results. I've got to get going."

Nick hurried out of the room, zigzagging through the hallways to the locker room. Looking around, he pulled out a business card and dialed a number. He spoke to a secretary and quickly changed sides, keeping the cell close to his ear.

Hearing the voice on the other end, Nick checked his surroundings one more time and lowered his voice. "Yes, Dr. Bale. I'd like to meet with you before your session with Nigel if that was all right." Nick licked his lips, the pounding in his heart making it harder to hear the voice on the other end. "Good, and yes. If we could, I'd like to interview him for my case."

* * *

The African American doctor met Nick in his office where he took a seat in a swivel chair. The man was busy re-arranging heaps of files onto the floor, so his guest could see him from the overly messy and disorganized desk.

"There, now we can talk face to face, instead of over mounds of scattered paperwork," the doctor chuckled.

His good humor had little effect on the anxious CSI who hadn't kept very still. Nick couldn't seem to keep from fiddling with his hands, so he folded them under his elbows to keep them in place. The physician didn't give him the small sad face; he instead sensed directness would be the best course of action.

"Nigel Crane has been under my care for three years. I took over his case about four months after his sentence to the Mercury Center. His previous physician was a state care provider whose caseload was over two hundred patients." Dr. Bale paused to see if the young man had been following.

Nick sucked in both lips to gnaw and gave a broken smile. "Is he able to talk to me? Can I ask him questions about Joey?"

Dr. Bale laughed. "Yes, Mr. Stokes. Nigel, on the surface, functions fine from day to day. He reads, watches TV, eats, just like the rest of us. He even cleans the floors on the fourth level of the hospital. He doesn't socialize very much as he lacks interpersonal skills which are common with his personality type."

Nick looked away. "Of course."

The doctor played with a lone file in the center of his chaotic desk. "Mr. Stokes. How much do you know about Nigel Crane? About his diagnosis, treatment and his obsession with you several years ago."

Nick sat forward, his unease washed away with a more bland expression. "Doctor, I'm not here to learn about my case, or delve into Nigel's mind. I'm here to try to find out what happened to one of your co-workers and four patients."

Dr. Bale's warmth dissipated slightly, replaced by frustration. "I dedicate my life to trying to cure mental illness, Mr. Stokes. Just like you serve this city by tracking down evidence. Can we not try to help each other on this matter? Will you not reconsider my request from three years ago?"

Nick's shifted in his seat and look up strangely, and clearly confused. "What request?"

This time it was the doctor who appeared baffled. "I requested your assistance on two separate occasions concerning a Victim's Impact session with Mr. Crane as part of his therapy."

Nick laughed, its hollowness missed by the stranger. "What?" It was the second time that day he'd been relegated to that stupid word.

Dr. Bale's perplexity did not abate. "Confronting a stalker with his victim's plight. The most effective study in treating the delusions is to confront the perpetrator with their behavior and its impact on the victim. Since most stalkers don't view their actions as inappropriate or don't recognize the harm. Then they can begin to differentiate between the actual reality and the fantasy they created."

Nick simply shook his head, still slightly stunned.

The kindly physician defined the reasons for his request, not identifying the root of the criminalist's silence. "I felt it would aid in your recovery to confront your attacker as well as dispute Nigel's interpretation of events. You denied both my requests."

Nick managed to find his sense of speech. "I never talked to you before, or saw any request for such a meeting."

Dr. Bale matched the same quizzical attitude of his visitor. "But Mr. Grissom assured me in his e-mails you were not interested in the impact session. That you wanted to get past the events."

Nick froze, turning away so he didn't share with the doctor his pinched expression, dark eyes that closed, his chest hitching slightly from a shocked breath. Hurt, mortification, and anger twisted his guts, causing the need for a huge lungful of air to calm his now raging mind. He stood up, and walked over to a wall, any wall.

He needed something blank, like the slate he sought so many times. Instead he felt deep frustration as he balled up his fist to slam it into the brick. As he brought the folly towards the unyielding object, his hand froze and fingers slid down the cold, painted mortar instead. The burn in his chest faded quickly to cold and all-encompassing numbness. He rested his forehead on the lifeless surface, banged his skull softly to get a grip and then wrestled with the rest of his emotions to drag his body back to the chair.

He stared at the physician, his words curt. "I'm all ears."

tbc...

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

Dr. Bale looked at his visitor as if sizing up his motivations; he must have found whatever nuance he sought when he went on. "Like I said, I was under the impression that Mr. Grissom spoke to you about my request."

"When was that?"

"About six months after the trial, less than two years ago."

Nick tapped the armrests. "And why didn't you ever contact me directly? I mean, this was personal. Why keep e-mailing my supervisor?"

The physician looked sheepish. "I guess in retrospect, that would have been the best thing. However, Mr. Grissom was my contact and we had already been in communication about Mr. Crane's evaluations and discussion concerning the trial. Since Mr. Crane's defense pleaded insanity and there wasn't much to do but recommend a treatment for sentencing after the judge agreed with the DA's and counsel's assessment of his mental status."

"He wanted to become me," Nick muttered, gazing at his hands, not understanding why anyone would ever want to be in his shoes sometimes.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stokes. That's not what Mr. Crane was after. Although that is an interesting theory."

Nick shifted in his seat. "It seemed to fit at the time. What... I mean...what did he want?"

"To fill a void."

It was too pat of a response, but he didn't roll his eyes.

Dr. Bale sighed. "People like Mr. Crane are emotionally barren; they have a poor sense of their identity and since most suffer some form of psychosis, they latch onto others who can give them self worth."

Nick sat forward gesturing with his hand. "I talked to him for about ten minutes, maybe a little longer, and somehow I'm the solution to his problems."

"In his shoes, if someone who has a higher status, like someone in law enforcement, can speak with him with such ease, then in his mind, he couldn't be as detestable as he perceived," Dr. Bale said matter of factly.

"What about Jane Galloway? He murdered her, claimed she was some sort of gift. What you're describing goes beyond a lonely man seeking a friend."  
Nick shook his head. This was exactly what he didn't want to do. This was what he wanted to avoid.

It wasn't about him; it was about the case and he needed to get back on track. But he didn't stop the doctor, didn't tell him that this was unnecessary, because some of the splinters from a few hours ago were multiplying and the cracks grew deeper.

"That's part of the delusion. Mr. Crane rationalized all of his behavior, minimized its relevance. In his worldview, it wasn't against society's rules. Jane's death was just another way to impress you."

"Impress me." Nick still couldn't believe it.

"For some people, impressing a person they seek approval from is a guiding force for all motivation. A goal to achieve."

Nick nodded. "Yeah, well, I never tried to assault the person I sought approval from."

"Mr. Crane was caught off guard when he attacked you. Believe it or not, he doesn't hold any violent tendencies towards you. He lacks any practical way to deal with things that he cannot control. Entering his apartment was one of them."

Nick let the investigator part of his brain analyze the case, for once without all the other noise in his head telling him to stop and move on. "All those cameras, and recordings." Nick took a breath, "All part of his need to have some hand in my daily life."

Dr. Bale leaned forward to listen, since the criminalist's voice grew softer and harder to follow with every passing minute. "Gathering such detailed information is common with sociopathic thinking. Again, in his frame of mind, it wasn't wrong."

"I guess when we found his place, all of his equipment, we must have rattled him," Nick theorized.

"It literally tore his world apart. Like a free fall, his only thing left was to confront you." The doctor lowered his voice. "Most stalkers don't ever appear to their victims; they stick to their delusions for years. If not, then their reality is broken."

Nick stared off into space, his voice heavy. "I thought he was going to kill me, in my own place. Though this time I wasn't going to just stand there, helpless."

"He never planned to kill you. He was going to end his life; in a way, it was a test."

Nick frowned, hands clutched the armrests. "I saved him," he almost whispered.

Dr. Bale's chair squeaked in the quiet office. "You reaffirmed his fantasy. You showed you cared that he lived."

Nick felt his nails dig into the leather. "Gave him exactly what he craved," his voice cracking.

Dr. Bale fell silent, letting the past few minutes sink in.

Nick forced his weight down onto his arms, pushing his body up and out of the chair, holding it there for a second, as the muscles in his arm ached and trembled. Then he eased himself back down, and peered up. "This victim impact session. You think it would have worked?"

"I think it might have helped; it certainly would have sped up the progress."

Nick swallowed. "He's made progress, though. Yeah?"

The doctor leaned back in his chair. "Yes, he has. Steps have been made, although I think it will be almost unpredictable if you interview him. My original plans were to slowly allow him to accept the fact you were going to confront him. The impact session was meant to instill empathy and consequences for his actions."

Nick wet his lips. "Maybe later, Doc. Right now, I just need answers on this case."

The older man eyed the criminalist. "Did you ever get help after this event?"

Nick exhaled. "This isn't about me, Doctor." He looked towards the door. "Can we begin this?"

* * *

He waited and waited. Seemed like a damn eternity, an invisible stopwatch above his head; the little ticking sound made him wish he still smoked. College days he did for a little while, but now he had that insatiable need to draw something dark and thick into his lungs to calm the jitters.

Christ, it wasn't supposed to be like this...He wasn't supposed to feel this way, stomach doing flip flops, sharp pain tearing at his side. Sweat dotted his brow, which he wiped off with the back of his hand. Except he wasn't afraid. No... fear _felt_ different; squeezed his heart, made every beat of it hurt to pump more blood. If anything his pulse was speeding along like a marathon runner. This wasn't quite a panic attack; he knew what those felt  
like.

Nick balled up his fists again. It was more like some twisted adrenaline rush...another automatic response to stress...for him, any stress did something unexpected. This felt like he had swallowed a whole packet of caffeine pills, followed by a double shot of Jolt cola.

By the time he heard the lock twist open, Nick knew what it was that made the veins along the surface of his skin pop out... It was anger.

Pure resentment at being under the microscope again; to be viewed by those eyes...eyes that followed his every move for weeks. Nick cursed inwardly; he was already relinquishing power and control to the short geeky man, and he hadn't even entered the room yet.

Nick was full of rage at himself.

The white lab coat caught his eye, the movement followed by the physician's stoic face, his eyes on Nick's, searching for any last minute signal to stop.

There was none, and the other man motioned behind him. That meek profile, followed by short dark hair, a small round face and plastic rimmed glasses with thick lenses.

Nigel Crane stood in the door frame, silent, hands submissive in front, dull green shirt, a matching set of pants. Green was the color of calm; the prisoners here were not relegated to the normal orange jumpsuit. He pushed his glasses over the bridge of his nose; bewilderment, parted lips with the hint of a question...then a swallow and the almost fidgety nature sort of melted into a calm, easy stance.

Nigel took a few steps in front of the table, Nick on the other side, the bulk of a guard behind the smaller inmate. The man of nightmares past motioned with his hands towards the familiar orange plastic chair.

"May I take a seat?"

Nick gestured for him to do so, still watching Nigel's movements, his stomach burning with a burst of digestive acids. The man's voice was as calm and cool as before.

Nigel cleared his throat, hands lay flat on the wooden surface, eyes moving...soaking in details.

"You grew your hair out. Very fashionable, Nick. Like one of those indie rock bands."

Dr. Bale pulled up another chair next to his patient; Nigel didn't notice. The physician turned his head, voice chiding like a teacher's. "Nigel. I explained why Mr. Stokes came here. He's investigating a case, and needed to speak to you about Joey."

"It's Nick," Nigel corrected, never tearing his gaze away.

Nick reminded his brain about who was in charge, who had all the power; it was his to control. "I want to know about your cell mate."

Nigel knitted his eyes. "Did you change your choice in designers?" He leaned forward, squinting. "Reading the latest fashion magazines, not sure about the color." He slouched into his seat, eyes still straight ahead. "Earth tones suit you better."

Nick held up his hand to silent the physician who was about to say something. Nick's eyebrows turned downward, his face almost menacing, his voice sinister. "Your cell mate. Joseph Brighten--"

"Come on, Nick---"

"Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking, Mr. Crane. And don't waste my time either," he chastised. Nick glared when the prisoner became huffy. "I have other things to do. If you're just going to screw around, we can end this interview now," Nick threatened.

There it was, a slight trace of fear. Nigel let it slip for a second, but Nick knew he had him hook, line, and sinker.

Nigel sighed, rolling his eyes. "Joey...really, Nick. The guy was a bore. Total loser."

Nick gave in a little. "Why was that?"

The geeky man snorted. "Never seen such a wimpy guy. On and on about his stupid wife, bratty child. Whatever. A weak little man, couldn't hack it, Nick. Didn't just accept things."

"Was he ever violent or get angry easily?" the CSI asked.

Nigel smiled. "Joey didn't know about fear, Nick. He didn't quite understand it, how to manipulate it. Use it to its full extent. He was ruled by it, let it play with him. Conquer him...eat him up 'til he was nothing but a little lost sheep, prey for all the big bad wolves out there."

Nick felt something cook, right beneath the surface; he swore if someone touched his skin it would burn. His tone, his voice however, was like crushed ice. "Just answer my questions." He wet his lips, another sheet of arctic cold. "What about this week, anything unusual? Did he talk about Dr. Kincaid?"

Maybe he was laying on the toughness just a bit too thickly; piss off Nigel enough where he clammed up completely. Those beady little eyes behind plastic coke bottle glasses, they showed anger, and he'd have to backpedal. Then a tiny spark...something.

Nigel actually grinned. "I like this bad cop thing, Nick. The darker side is so much more confident, don't you think?"

Nick sat silent, his face betrayed nothing. Inside the splintering magnified, merging with the contents of bile. It had to be burning a hole in his gut, the lining of his belly skewed with the scorching of his skin.

"I'm sure Joey talked to other people, not just you." He managed to control his body enough to begin to stand. "I'll just find someone else..."

"Fine!" Nigel grunted, the little fire in his eyes blazing, then finally calming as Nick sat back down.

The smug little man grumbled under his breath. "Only time he mentioned any of his doctors was when he was transferred to his new one."

"Yeah," Nick prodded, not letting his anticipation show.

Nigel huffed some more. "Guy got him all worked up."

Nick felt the patience slipping through his fingers; he glanced at Dr. Bale, who seemed just intrigued by the whole conversation. Nick focused back, he felt on to something. "Why was he agitated? Was he angry at Dr. Kincaid, his new physician?"

"Will you need me to testify, Nick? My information is very important, right? Since Joey is all by his lonesome. Only his dull walnut of a brain to keep him company." Nigel's eyes glinted.

Nick let silence feed the tension.

Another shove of eyeglasses. "His new doc was always interviewing him, asking him questions. He shouldn't really rattle Joey's cage; little man wasn't very tough." Exhaling, looking around the room bored, Nigel finally locked eyes with the criminalist. "Joey mentioned being used. More stupid babble about set ups, and conspiracies. Just thought he read too many spy novels."

Nick's brain was on overload, trying to find clues within clues. He had to keep things simple. "He thought Dr. Kincaid was using him."

Nigel was beside himself, half amused, shaking his head. "Nick, Nick. No, once again you got it all wrong. His old doctor was up to no good, the new lab coat was trying to find all the little breadcrumbs."

Nick didn't show his confusion, Nigel's rambles made little sense, but he knew he'd been given the biggest break. "His old doctor." Nick sat for a moment, letting everything wash over him, trying to ignore everything else. "What about late night meetings. Did he ever leave his cell at night for therapy? I know lockdown is at nine; any other time did he leave at a strange hour?"

"I'm not his keeper, Nick. I only like to talk to interesting people." Nigel smiled again.

The criminalist had enough; there was only so much he could take, and knew this was about the best information he would obtain today. He signaled to Dr. Bale that this interview was over, no more words for Nigel.

"It's time to go back to Gen Pop." The physician stood up, waving his hand towards the exit.

Nigel stood up slowly, not taking a step away from the table.

Nick looked up at him, defiant...in control.

The nerdy man seemed disappointed and the guard began to usher him away.

"It was good talking with you again, Nick," he said, then turned to follow his escort out.

The geeky man took his time, the guard edging him away. "Come on, your broom closet is waiting for you; got floors to sweep little man."

Nigel headed away and waited for the guard to unlock the door. He turned his head around. "I'm sorry, Nick."

The Texan didn't really know how to respond to the brief apology... his stare cool, lips motionless.

Nigel waited and saw nothing. He adjusted his stupid glasses again. "I'm sorry I didn't send you a card last summer; figured it'd get lost with all your fan mail."

Nick's muteness was more out of revulsion, and not a last jab of their spar. He was left alone in the tiny room and he waited for the silence again before he stood up, nearly knocking the chair over. He leaned against the wall with his hand and laughed softly.

tbc...

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Nick sat on the edge of his sofa, swallowed whole by the dark. A tiny light from his kitchen bathed the CSI in almost ghostly illumination. He hunched over, trying to find the rhythm to breathe deeply. He had exited the Institute in a trance-like state, the memories such a blur that it dawned on him to pat down his side to make sure he still had his service weapon. Skin met coolness of metal; a weird comfort, and he let his hand drop to his side.

It didn't occur to him to put his gun away, change clothes, or get up and flip a few switches. Logic was a stranger. He finally stumbled off the couch to search for some antacids from his medicine cabinet, still letting the blackness surround him, the layout of his place ingrained in his head. Nick chewed up three tablets, his stomach still churning up vicious fluids; never had he ever endured such wrath before. Normally headaches were his companion and playing partner with stress.

With a gait that of an old man, he crept back towards his door. He verified that the locks were secured, alarm code punched in and he sort of weaved his way into his bedroom. He carefully laid his Glock on the nightstand, checking the safety out of professional habit. He glanced at his clock, setting the alarm; it was barely noon. He didn't remove his clothes before bed, instead just kicked off his shoes and cocooned his body under the warmth of the blankets.

He closed his eyes, but trained ears perked up at every noise: a yelp of a dog outside, the creak of wood, the noise of appliances humming. All the ambient noise was exaggerated; all because he let a nerdy guy behind locked doors rub him the wrong way with little snide comments meant to dig and fester.

Nick waited for slumber, but found himself restless; sleeping with one eye open. Every light sound magnified by taut nerves served to irritate the already exhausted criminalist. He slept fitfully with a mind engaged with putting together scattered pieces of a case, and a psyche at war with itself.

Four hours later Nick threw his covers off and sat at the end of his mattress, rubbing at his burning eyes. Still afternoon and his mind had kept him from catching any real rest. He knew the only thing to do would be to go to work early. Finding answers and making headway on the case that now stalked him in his sleep would be the only solution to another bout of insomnia.

He stood up, hand on his stomach in an unconscious gesture after hours of belly pain. He turned on a lamp, blinking a few times and decided returning to work in the same set of clothes wasn't a good idea. He rifled through his closet, hand resting on a hanger with a long sleeved, button down black shirt. Tapping his fingers he swung past some of his newer shirts, ignored the low riding pants and grabbed a pair of chinos and snagged a short sleeved shirt of cotton blended with Lycra.

He showered, shaved and dressed. Nick tucked in his shirt, running a hand through his longer hair. Staring for another minute, slightly hesitant, he grabbed his gun from the nightstand, threw on a lightweight jacket and headed back to work.

Nick scanned through dozens of toxicology results; every test a negative for the requested search. Trying to determine anything abnormal within the screenings was like looking for a needle in a haystack. There was no mass spectrum analysis for drugs since every one had a specific pattern. Unless you knew what to look for; then it boiled down to testing each one separately, which some technicians found to be tedious and an incredible misuse of resources.

Nick felt like he was back at square one until his eyes lit up with extreme curiosity.

"Looks like the cat has your tongue," Sara joked.

Nick's head jerked up. "What are you doing here so early?"

Sara simply gawked at him. "Why are you?" she retorted, eyebrow arched in triumph.

Nick didn't respond but simply gestured for her to come over and soak in what he was reading. "There were high levels of norepinephrine in all four suspects urine results," he said handing it to the other criminalist to study.

Sara raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "These types of ketones usually are indicative of diabetes, which as you know is astronomically impossible for all four suspects to be developing at once."

Nick sat, lips pursed in confusion. "Yeah, but what does it mean?"

Sara sighed. "Another wacky clue. Pointing us into another direction, but which way?"

He sifted through his tests one more time, trying to gauge a pattern, glancing at his watch. "Something is ringing a bell. I just don't know what."

He looked up, this time staring at the clock on the wall. Sara noticed his obsessive behavior, smiling. "Got a date you're late for?"

He gave her a fake glare. "Nah. Just wondering when Grissom is coming in. I want him to go over what he found in the cells he processed yesterday afternoon."

"Um, he already briefed me on those." Sara looked at him with something akin to pity.

Nick leaned his arm until it rested on the table. "Oh, he did."

Sara tried to smile; she was a bit more used to the erratic behavior of their supervisor. "Nothing probative. Usual belongings, no notes, letters, any signs that anything amiss was going on." She shrugged. "Still seems like something just snapped in there and they all went…" She struggled for a politically correct term.

"Nuts, " Nick finished for her. "We're still trying to determine if it was as simple as that. All right, then you find anything else out on our good doctors?"

Sara knew better than to argue with Nick when he was sporting his determined look; she resigned herself to what bits of information she gathered. "Nothing much without Dr. Rhodes' records. He's known as quite the politician; judges and casino owners within his circle of friends, which is odd for a glorified prison warden."

She snagged Nick's laptop to display some of the other information. "He's had a lot of physicians transferred in and out during the last two years. Mainly stacking the hospital with brasher, younger doctors, all trying to lay down new groundwork in research, keeping his Institute ahead of all other grants. It's ranked in the top five for the largest amount of government funds received."

Nick stood behind her, reading as she scrolled down.

"Other than that, no complaints, except for the mention in Kincaid's notes and again nothing formally was filed. Dr. Stanfield's background is tougher to flesh out; those documents were sort of flimsy. I do know he has a background in computer networks and programming. His original education records indicate he sought out a study in artificial intelligence and biochemistry for a while, before settling on psychology." She snorted. "He wasted a good year and half in the Ivy League just switching majors."

Nick shook his head. "Nerds and their trades." He glanced at his watch again, definitely irritated. "So, you never told me where Grissom went after debriefing _you_ on his findings."

Sara matched his annoyed posture. "You never asked, and I _am_ a part of this investigation too."

Nick gave her a pointed look to which she relented, looking slight guilty. "It seems he slept as much as we did. He went back to the Institute to get that dental impression from Stoyanov before lights out for the night. He wants to start building his case around him as the leader of the attack."

The Texan stiffened. "He went without me."

Sara looked away, obviously conflicted. "He told me that you found out that Nigel Crane was recently transferred there."

"Sara." The warning in that lowered, don't lecture me tone was clear as day.

She never backed down from a challenge and was never fond of kid-gloved treatment if it meant that it would do more harm than good. "I can't believe you wanted to interview him, Nick. I mean it was a long shot at best."

Nick didn't stand around long enough to be lectured; his face betraying the hurt, the quicker to anger defensiveness that was frequent companion the last few weeks. Sara wasn't in the mood to be dismissed again. "Nick?"

He didn't answer her; an undeniable force was unleashed. One that renewed his once torn up stomach from last night to flip and smolder with new burning sensations that spread into his chest. A fire burned there, sending signals all over his body. Nick left the room wordlessly, sick to death of his well being questioned behind closed doors.

Sara was hot on his heels, unsuccessful at getting his attention until he nearly knocked her down as she stood right in his path. She grabbed his forearm. "What's wrong with you these days?"

He glared at her incredulously. She stood her ground. "Storming out of rooms is not your style and don't deny that you're behaving differently. You've called me out on the carpet before, so don't get so ticked off when I do the same to you."

Nick rested his hands on his hips, tongue wetting his bottom lip. "I'm sorry." He looked her straight in the eye to make sure she saw the sincerity. "I'll apologize for being unprofessional and if I said anything out of line." He paused. "I'm not sorry for the way I feel or what I think is right about a case."

Sara let her hand slip away. "Grissom left maybe a half hour ago."

Nick didn't smile, but showed his appreciation with his eyes. He stood there a moment, then he was struck with a thought. A nag from his first set of interviews. "Have the lab look into all Parkinson's medications. Have them drop everything else."

Sara didn't seem ready to hop to. Nick shook his head. "Look, I think I know something. I had an uncle who suffered from that disease and some of the things I've seen lately are just too coincidental."

Sara looked hesitant, but he knew he was on to something. "Please, trust my instincts."

She allowed a small smile. "I'll go over there and tell them and call you if there are any hits."

Nick nodded, and left to go catch up with his problems.

* * *

It must have been dinner break, because the guard who asked for his weapon to be left with him was even grumpier and enjoying his little power trip a bit too much for a rent-a cop. Nick just kept any comments silent as he found Dr. Rhodes to escort him to the fourth level. The CSI kept to the typical chitchat, his suspicions hidden like any good poker player. It was annoying that the security detail wouldn't let him even go to the room where his superior was working to match the tooth patterns without the head of the  
hospital or the primary physician of the four suspects' care. Stanfield was out of the question, since he was already with Grissom.

"You're still keeping all of them on the fourth floor and not back in general population?" he asked, just trying to break the silence.

The director looked at him as if he had grown two heads. "Ivan was already a guest here as well as Patterson for their violent natures. While Tanner did not murder his victims even though the sexual assaults were brutal, and Joey never exhibited violent behavior 'til now, seems to me they all belong here."

Nick followed him down the hall, getting sort of lost in the turns and number of twists they took. "We're still trying to determine which of them were involved in Kincaid's death. It's possible that one or two of them didn't harm anyone."

Dr Rhodes didn't hide his condescending manner. "Nice to see some law enforcement uphold the whole innocent until proven guilty, even with so much evidence to the contrary. However, until all of them are proven not to have assaulted Dr. Kincaid, they all stay on level four. With extra precautions such as electronic locks and every inmate heavily medicated."

"Is that why you have fewer guards up here, even if the inmates are more violent?" Nick inquired as they walked deeper into the depths of the east wing.

The director smiled. "It's easy to control patients who are made docile under the power of sedatives."

Nick stood by as the physician took out his key card, slid it through the sensor and opened the door. Grissom looked up from arranging his kit, and Dr. Stanfield bristled upon the head of the facility entering the small room. The geeky doctor with hair with a mind of its own and even more annoying sweater vest scrambled past Nick to confer with his superior.

Nick ignored the Stanfield as he complained about another waste of time. Grissom stood where he was, setting aside the dental impression kit. He didn't give the younger man eye contact; the first clue that he wasn't happy about Nick being there. "Last I checked you were supposed to be going over tox results. You know how many need to be run. I need you at the Lab."

"I've narrowed down our scope on those. Last I checked one of these inmates has a peculiar fixation with you." Nick didn't keep the irony about that little detail out of his tone.

The younger criminalist wanted to suggest they request the details for the research grant that Dr. Rhodes commissioned, to see if they would hand them over without a warrant. A telling sign if he was onto something. Nick kept his cards close to his vest until the supervisor had time to think about the best way to approach it.

Grissom finally looked his way. "What parameters did you use to narrow down the analysis?"

Nick took a hasty step closer, trying to keep his voice low in the midst of the other occupants. "We know there were high levels of dopamine and now norepinephrine popped in the urine results. I went with my gut and had them began searching for drugs used for Parkinson's."

"Parkinson's disease?" Grissom asked, still not fond of his other criminalist's presence.

Nick cringed when Grissom didn't lower his voice, looking at the other two physicians who both looked up, but continued their discussions. "Yeah, it's something I pieced together."

Before Grissom responded, Dr. Rhodes interrupted them. "Well gentlemen, I need to get some final paperwork done before I finally get to go home. Dr. Stanfield will make sure each patient is able to come here for your tests. Dinner trays and nightly meds are making the rounds, so if any of them are too out of it to walk here, we might have to take you to their cells."

"I'd like to start with Mr. Stoyanov, please." Grissom requested, still staring at Nick.

Dr. Stanfield grumbled. "Very well. It might take a little while to get him; until then, please remain where you are."

Nick waited for both doctors to leave before facing his supervisor, his brain on overdrive rattling out his brewing thoughts. "These guys were on something that was not part of their daily regimens. Something that made all four of them violent despite two people who don't typically show any aggressive behavior."

Grissom yielded to the other man. "Go on."

Nick took a calming breath, to put facts in a sensible order and chill his still turbulent insides. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. "According to Sara, Kincaid knew better than to put two inmates with paranoid and delusional behavior in the same room with two others without a good reason. Group sessions are risky since there's already an air of mistrust with the patients."

"It would only serve to aggravate the psychosis of the other more violent patients," Grissom mused out loud.

Nick nodded. "Then why? Where's the camera from that shard of lens we found? He was videotaping the sessions and conducting them at night with no one around. I think he found out something unethical concerning Dr. Rhodes. Something about the new research study he commissioned Stanfield to oversee with Kincaid."

Grissom crossed his arms in front of him. "Pretty big leap. I'll agree that the tox screen results are the key; that something in all four of their systems lead to the murder. A key trail that needs constant supervision. Jumping to motive is useless if we don't have anything to back it up. Right now, I'm linking hard physical evidence that will concretely connect one of them conclusively to the victim."

"Based on what, Gris? Your gut telling you Ivan is probably the man that started the free for all? They all had Kincaid's blood on them." Nick quickly felt his face flush.

"Yes. We also have Ivan's fingerprints on the weapon as well as Joseph Brighten's." Grissom leaned his weight behind him, waiting expectantly.

Despite feeling the familiar heat course though his body, Nick didn't lash out in defensiveness. "Ivan is the mostly likely suspect, and I know you can't help but to rise to his challenge. But, motivation can still tie in directly to finding a suspect. It gives us a direction to go after."

"What direction is that, Nick? You're already looking for defenses for certain suspects because you feel sympathy for a man who couldn't handle his personal tragedy."

It was a barb, unintentional or not, and it stung. Nick stalked away, leeching out frustration. He spun around unable to keep justifications at bay. "I went ahead and interviewed Nigel about Joey."

Nick wasn't quite prepared for the fist that slammed onto the table, Grissom's sudden burgundy face a flashback to very rare bursts of anger from many years ago. "I told you not to interview him, Nick!"

Grissom angrily brushed by his criminalist then swung around, arms posed in midair. "What didn't you understand about that?"

Nick didn't back down like in years past. No backpedaling this time. "You said _we_ were not going to interview him. I went back off the clock."

"Twisting my words until they fit what you needed, doesn't change things and only proves you've totally lost perspective on this case," Grissom said testily.

"You don't seem to have any issues about manipulating things to suit your own purposes," Nick snapped back. "Responding to correspondence that didn't have anything to do with you," he added in a hushed, gravely tone.

"As your supervisor it's my duty to make decisions that effect the Team. Putting the Nigel Crane case behind you was the best thing," Grissom explained without remorse.

Nick came within inches of his supervisor's face. "Who said you had the right to make that choice for me?" Nick's voice cracked with something that didn't resemble anger at all.

Grissom was silent, unable to refute anything that wasn't anger laced.

Before Nick could press on, the door opened and the stuffy physician froze, obviously aware of the tense situation. "Am I interrupting something?"

Nick stared at his boss, who broke away to face the other man. "No. We were just talking about another matter. Are we ready?"

Grissom never turned around re-focusing at the current matter. Nick shoved a chair out of his way with his foot and rested along the wall with his arms crossed.

The man pushed the thick glasses back up the bridge of his nose, looking back and forth between both men, eyes narrowed. "Yes. Franco is bringing in Ivan."

Franco, the Latino guard from the other day, escorted the mountain of a man into the barren room. The Russian's feet dragged like heavy trunks of an elephant, his unruly mane of black hair frizzy and unkempt. A scraggly light beard had not been shaved for a couple days. The guard pushed the man from behind, guiding massive shoulders down into the chair.

Ivan stared at the floor, rocking slightly in his seat. Nick stayed on his feet, eyes trained on the suspect, whose lazy gaze remained glued to the tiles on the floor, absent of his spiels of evil and devils. The criminalist followed his supervisor's movements as he got ready the dental kit, eying the lanky guard and the man's physician who hunkered in the far corner.

Grissom strode towards the subdued inmate, laced straitjacket securing limbs and hands from possible menace. The supervisor held out the tray, looking downward somewhat, intrigued by the more rarefied conduct.

"I need you to lift your head and open your mouth wide so I can insert this tray into your mouth. It won't hurt, but I need to get an impression of your teeth," the supervisor instructed, waiting for compliance.

Ivan silently sulked within the chair, swaying slightly, zoned to his own soundless accompaniment within his head. Grissom held the tool out, allowing a little more time for the inmate to adjust or acknowledge his order. Casting a sideways glance at the other criminalist he repeated his instructions one more time, a bit slower.

Dr. Stanfield stuffed his hands inside lab coat pockets, peering curiously through his wired rims. "He just got his meds, makes him sluggish."

Grissom stooped down, both men at eye level. "Do you understand my instructions, Mr. Stoyanov?"

A head lolled to the side, a tiny twitch, dark irises moved upwards inside eye sockets. "Da."

The entomologist readied the insertion as the Russian raised his head, strong set of jaws opening wide. Nick took a tentative step closer as his boss slid the tray across slack lips. As soon as the flexible plastic brushed over the lower row of teeth, the giant launched out of his chair, knocking it over, and rammed full throttle into the unsuspecting older criminalist.

A flurry of bodies rushed past Nick as the brute jabbed his hulking mass into Grissom, slamming the man into the wall. The Texan and the guard latched onto the freight train, grappling with any finger hold to pull the man off. The supervisor's shocked and pained face demonstrated the strength with which he was knocked off his feet and crushed against the wall.

Grissom didn't even have time to hold his arms up to defend himself; the mold kit clattered to the floor. He gasped for breath lost in grunts, face reddened, indicative of lack of oxygen.

Dr. Stanfield scurried over to the intercom to hit the button for help as the Latino orderly struggled for purchase, unsuccessfully trying to restrain the powerful inmate. Ivan growled a litany in Russian, twisting towards the left and knocking Franco away like an annoying insect. Nick was shoved to the right towards the corner just as the guard charged back towards the prisoner.

Ivan meet his rush with his back, slamming with more speed than thought possible, crushing the smaller man against brick with his weight.

Nick impacted the corner for a second, shoulder taking the brunt of the collision, then flew towards Ivan who was making another whirlwind tackle towards the supervisor who had barely recovered. Nick managed to wrap an arm around the wild animal, succeeding in dipping his arm under the guy's throat. The Texan used his defensive technique to put the inmate into a half nelson, another hand grasping his elbow to try to somehow increase the pressure around the thick neck and larynx.

Ivan bucked, but Nick squeezed harder, grunting in effort, his body slung atop the other man in a duel for control. His chokehold began to have an effect. Ivan began to crack under the throttle, wailing and gasping for breath. Nick squeezed harder, pressing his smaller mass over the heavier one, feeling the man weaken.

He heard the door's lock tumblers click, and saw Stanfield running towards him, the corner of his eye catching sight of a syringe with what he hoped was an abundance of sedative. Just as the Russian seemed to falter he screamed and Nick felt two sets of clamping teeth tear into the under part of his forearm.

Pain like no other ripped through soft flesh, as strong jaws sunk into muscles and tendon. Nick hollered, losing his hold as the beast never let up on the pressure, biting down with unrelenting force. Nick tried to get away, but he was held by a bear trap of iron. Franco was back on his feet again trying to wrestle with the other man.

Nick's screams filled the room along with Ivan's guttural noises. The inmate mashed down slightly to the left and right, cutting deeper into Nick's arm. He felt his eyes water, the room disappear through hazy vision. Two other hefty men alternated between helping Nick move away and taking down the enraged brute. Dr. Stanfield stabbed the patient into his bicep with his needle. The mouth released its grip, but not before Ivan's incisor-tooth tore a path across the under belly of Nick's arm, blood pouring out of the growing  
wound.

The Russian went down, a pile of men on top of him. Nick staggered back as he cried out, his hand trying to quell the hot burning of skin and flesh. He fell to the wayside, hunched over, barely on his feet. He heard a plethora of shouting, and calls for help. Through the pumping of his wild heart he heard Grissom's strained voice over him. Nick managed to peel open his eyes and felt his boss' arm around his waist. Through both sets  
of raspy breaths, Grissom pulled him towards the safety of the other corner.

"Let me see, Nick."

No mistaking that command. A shaky hand pulled away his own, dark blood flowing freely from a deep laceration along veins, jagged indents of ripped flesh from a set of teeth marks.

"God, Nick," Grissom cursed, older hands pressed along the wound as best they could as more blood dripped down to the floor, Nick's jeans already stained with splotches of red.

Grissom turned when he heard the flurry of men try to carry the unconscious Russian out. He caught Dr. Stanfield's bewildered eyes. "Stop standing around and get me some help, now!"

* * *

A/N at my bio.


	9. Chapter 9

Grissom shouted at the frazzled doctor, peeved at having to wait for the aloof man to get his wits about him. Finally the pencil pusher ran over, avoiding the wheelchair that had been brought in to haul Ivan out of the room, as the two guards met reinforcements in the hallway. Franco followed the entourage out of the room to oversee everything, before he turned back and to join the physician who now hovered over the criminalists.

The supervisor pressed down on the worst of the bleeding area of the wound. Nick hissed, grunting when the weight was added, as he tried to cradle his arm towards his chest instinctively.

"Let me see how bad it is," Dr. Idiot requested.

"Give me your lab coat so we can staunch this bleeding," Grissom ordered.

Nick stayed on his haunches, teeth gnashed together. He yelped when his boss prodded at his blazing arm; the slight inspection felt like acid bubbling inside the gash. Blood trickled beneath his palm, creating little trails of warm crimson stains along tanned skin. It felt like the angry teeth had sunk in and remained embedded in his flesh like burning lead spikes.

Dr. Stanfield removed his jacket; Grissom yanked it away without another word. He folded the garment a couple of times. The physician inspected the wound, shaking his head. "Looks bad, though you're lucky he didn't get an artery."

Nick missed the deadly dagger that his supervisor sent at the callous words, too preoccupied by the new waves of pain. Grissom wrapped his forearm with the fabric several times. Nick leaned his head back against the smooth brick. The now throbbing hot pulsation of his arm sent aches down his limb and into the rest of his body. Taking a few seconds to compose himself he looked over at Grissom who began barking instructions again, his words lost in a sea of fuzziness.

"You all right, Grissom?" he croaked, annoyed how his voice sounded.

The supervisor frowned. "A little worse for wear, but I'll live." He swallowed. "Thanks."

Nick wasn't sure what that meant, but he didn't get a chance to voice his thoughts, as his boss began harassing more people.

"I said, where's the ambulance?"

Dr. Stanfield shook his head. "That'll take too long; we can get him to the infirmary a lot quicker."

Grissom hesitated, but upon seeing the red stain slowly soak the white coat he acquiesced. "Okay, lead the way."

Nick was encouraged to his feet; his supervisor held the primitive bandage in place as they exited the room.

"Why the hell was there only one guard? I thought he was sedated!"

Grissom's demanding and angry questions made his head hurt, as he was hauled around like some freakin' injured puppy. The group bounded down the corridor like a horde of madmen, ironic since all the commotion was sure to agitate the cells of inmates as they passed. Nick managed to pry his arm away from his boss. He pressed down on the wound himself, able to manage the pain better, controlling the pressure. Grissom kept right by his side, still overcrowding, like he would just keel over or something.

They rushed down hallways at hairpin turns; a rolling cloud of angry thunder filled with arguing over who was at fault for the disaster. Nick loathed the entire situation.

Franco looked as if the weight of the world weighed heavily on his shoulders; wide eyed in horror and self-doubt over the circumstances. Obviously replaying how he could have handled the situation better.

_'Aren't we all buddy,_' Nick wanted to tell him. He knew that Ivan had some weird twisted fascination with Grissom, and this encounter was too good to pass up any jolly fun. Why wasn't the room more secured and how exactly did a sedated patient overpower three people like that?

All valid questions, lost to the throbbing of his poor arm. If his stomach had been tied up in fits earlier, it was doing somersaults now. He felt manhandled, corralled from one end of the wing to the other, no earthly idea where they were. Lost in a fog of pounding pain and the ever-growing arguing around him. Nick had to keep his wits about him; something set Ivan off with or without pharmaceutical aid. These weren't exactly the best circumstances to continue his theories about the case from before. A glance at Grissom told him two things.

His supervisor was letting his emotions drive him; anger, guilt, and fear...things he wasn't used to seeing from the normally stoic man. It only made him more annoyed he had no clue why. The other was his supervisor's failing ability to hide an occasional grimace and flinch from forcing his body into this maelstrom. Gil Grissom had been crushed against a wall by a raging bull of a man. Nick's worry overweighed his anger, even if his boss' attempt to hide his pain was some sort of hypocritical slap to the face.

Finally, they arrived like an angry herd, barreling through the infirmary. Nick was forced into a chair, while Angelo and a female nurse flanked him. Nick suppressed a groan when the soaked-through cotton was peeled away, the fabric irritating the wound.

Angelo let out a small whistle, swiveling a bright side lamp over the arm to inspect the injury. The heavyset brunette nurse grabbed a rolling stool and a tray, fussing with the male nurse. "Just keep the pressure on," she commanded. She turned Nick's arm at every angle with gloved hands to inspect the extent of the wounds.

The woman's embroidered name read Louretta; the middle-aged spitfire unfolded a cotton cloth under Nick's arm, throwing away bloodied gauze in a steady stream. "Looks worse than it is. Just keep that arm still," she explained somewhat gruffly.

Dr. Stanfield bobbled around the infirmary, running his hand though his brown, crazy curls, bouncing on his feet like some toddler who was about to burst through his britches. Grissom wasn't sure if he was glad the geek didn't have a hand in Nick's care or even more ticked off that the physician wasn't lending a finger to help. One more glance at the two arguing over his CSI's examination and he knew Nick was better off with the far more experienced nurses.

Nick now knew the exact definition of flambéed, since his mauled arm felt like an experiment by some mad cook. Sweat dotted his forehead; his right hand trembled just a bit from the strain of keeping his arm still as requested.

Angelo patted Nick's shoulder, winking at him. "You'll be fine, Dawg. Angry pit bull tried to make you his chew toy, but the fleshy part under your forearm bleeds real easily."

Nick nodded, relieved. "Hurts like a sonuvabitch," he admitted.

Louretta moved away, Angelo resuming the pressure on the wounds as she gathered a few supplies out of cabinets. Dr. Stanfield wandered over to speak with her out of earshot; Nick strained to hear what was going on, but was distracted when Grissom chose that very moment to come over. Instead of addressing his CSI he spoke to Nurse Angelo in his newly adopted curt tone.

"When you're done, I want you to draw a blood sample from Leon."

Angelo gave him a double-take for a second before the other nurse came back with a few items and laid them out on her tray. "Excuse me, Sir, but we need to work here. Why don't you take a seat in the corner."

Dr. Stanfield stood next to the entomologist who wasn't quite ready to be ordered around. "You have the right supplies to take care of his arm?"

Louretta didn't exactly glare, but her stern reply spoke volumes. "I'm a Physician's Assistant, on top of many years of being a nurse. I've stitched up more lacerations, stab wounds, and anything else you can think of over the years here. A ton more than most doctors," she said glaring at the geeky researcher. "We need to clean and irrigate the wound and he's going to need quite a few stitches, but your friend should be fine. This is kind of minor compared to some of the barbaric things I've seen inside here."

She ushered him away as Grissom glanced at the male nurse.

"I'll draw Ivan's blood when we're done here, all right?" Angelo asked.

Grissom nodded as he pulled up a chair. Dr. Stanfield didn't look like he knew what to do with himself. He pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it urgently. Grissom was about to pepper him with questions when the frazzled man flipped this cell closed angrily.

He held up his hand to quiet anything from the criminalist. "Seems as well funded as we are, we still don't have proper IT support. Got a call about some more power fluctuations with our system. I've got to take a look at it. Your colleague is in great hands, and I'll be back as quickly as possible if my staff needs me for any aspect of his care."

Grissom stood up, grunting from the effort, as he rubbed at sore ribs. "Wait," he protested.

"Franco will remain behind to escort you guys out, if I'm not back in time." The physician waved dismissively as he exited the infirmary.

The prison guard looked over at the supervisor, swallowing slightly. "You need to be checked out as well, Sir."

Grissom eased his battered body back down. "After Nick is taken care of," he replied despite the ache in his side.

* * *

Nick looked miserable, head rested on his left arm, his teeth gnashing down every few seconds from the sutures that were applied, his injured arm held firm, as the female nurse closed up the long laceration that began past his wrist and followed a ragged trail towards his elbow. The Texan's body was stiff with stress, his eyes closed at the painstakingly slow process. Grissom gave them plenty of time to get into a flow and meandered over to speak quietly as they worked.

Louretta looked up; the battle tank of a woman indicated with her eyes that she'd rather have Grissom sit right back down. "We numbed his arm with Lidocane while we close it up. The actual bite we injected with a needle since it was a bit of a nastier, deeper wound. Looks like he bit down then moved his jaw a bit. "

She didn't look at her patient with much sympathy as she spoke to his boss. "Any deeper, and he'd have been in a lot of trouble. I'm using tiny stitches to make sure there is less of a scar. So just keep sitting still." She addressed the younger suffering CSI. "Wouldn't want to leave a scar on this nice arm of yours; then you'd end up having to go to a plastic surgeon because you wiggled around too much."

"What about something for the pain?" Grissom asked.

Nick turned until the side of his face rested on his makeshift pillow, clearing his throat. "Something would be nice," he drawled.

Grissom frowned, knowing Nick didn't complain unless he was really hurting. The nurse didn't look up from her sewing. "You should be numb enough there, cowboy."

Nick chuckled. "Don't think an entire dentist office would help, Ma'am."

Louretta shared an annoyed expression with her co-worker. "Mr. Know-it-all left before writing a 'scrip, but I can do it just the same."

Grissom looked none too pleased. "What about antibiotics?"

Nick looked even unhappier at being talked about when he was right there. "Grissom, let them do their jobs."

Angelo helped clean up, eying both men.

Louretta got up when she was finished with her sutures and went to the medicine cabinet. She fished into her pockets for the keys. Patting down her lab coat she looked up perplexed.

"What the Hell," she swore as she began looking around the infirmary.

Grissom didn't like what he was witnessing and stood up to hover. "What's the matter?"

After a few minutes of turning the place upside down the older woman slammed her fist down, and looked up slightly apologetic at her outburst. She was definitely not a woman to get on the wrong side of. "Dr. Stanfield, that annoying man. Borrowed my keys a while ago and didn't give them back. Can't get into the drug lockup."

Grissom zeroed in on their security escort. "Track down Dr. Stanfield or take me to him. This is ridiculous."

Franco nearly fell over out of his chair from the angry command, blundering with the intercom system. He requested the front security post but got only white static. Puzzled, he tried several more ways to track down someone within the wing. He rubbed at his goatee. "Damn thing keeps cutting out. Like everything's all jacked up."

Nick forced his body into a sitting position, earning an evil look from his nurse who wasn't quite done with him yet. "Don't worry about it, man." He just wanted to get away from the smells of such a sterile environment. His head pounded from the light blood loss, and his rebellious stomach didn't take too kindly to the new shock to his body. Too much stress for one day, and all on less than four hours of sleep.

Grissom pulled out his cell phone. "What's his number? I call him myself."

"Griss," Nick warned, tired of being the center of attention.

Franco seemed mighty intimidated by the older criminalist's hostile reaction. The man had been under the command of a lab rat of a boss too long. He held out his hands passively. "No can do, sir. Cell phones don't work most of the time in here. Too many thick walls on this floor."

Grissom bristled. "What do you mean? Stanfield just took a call from someone about a power fluctuation."

The Latino guard shrugged, obviously confused. "Um, no one can get a signal in here. Try it yourself, you can't dial out."

The beating pulse of pain was ignored for a moment as Nick recalled being barely able to speak to Sara on his cell from the third floor of the prison the other day.

"Hey, I still need to wrap that up with a bandage," the nurse chastised.

Nick joined Grissom, both of them sharing an uneasy silence. The supervisor punched in a few numbers on speed dial; no bars, no signal.

Grissom felt a shudder run through his body. "You were telling me about one of your theories a little while ago?"

Nick cradled his arm against his chest, noting the blood stains on his jeans, shirt and the myriad splotches on his supervisor's clothes as well. All he could think about was how this was too reminiscent of some bad plot twist in a horror movie. Except they might be trapped in the belly of a metal labyrinth surrounded by some really scary, real-life zombies.

* * *

It might have been somewhat comical. Two criminalists discussing aspects of a case, hashing out theories while each of them were poked and prodded. Actually, Grissom sat on an exam table, Angelo asking him the same thing over and over again. "Does it hurt when I put pressure here?"

Grissom grunted at a couple particularly sore areas, as Nick sat in a chair while Louretta wrapped up his arm in sterile white bandages.

"That's all he said?" Grissom repeated again.

Nick tried to keep from snapping at the comment, doing his best not to let his injury taint his response. "Yes. Kincaid told Joey he thought the man was being used. This set up his new episode of his muteness. From what I gathered, Joey had a rough time with anything stressful."

Grissom was 'helped' to a standing position, snatching his shirt and carefully slipping it back on. The black nurse scribbled in a chart. "Bruised ribs, so you'll be sore for a while."

Grissom gave the man a nod, still hashing things out. "Are you sure Crane wasn't just telling you what you wanted to hear?"

Nick felt the now familiar flush to his face. "No. He had no clue what I was fishing for."

Grissom's drawn face spoke volumes; Nick could predict what was coming next.

"He's not reliable, especially given the opportunity to keep in contact with you. He'll feed you crumbs to keep you dependent on his information."

Louretta wrapped one final layer of stretched cotton, one eye focused on the task, the other drifting between the obviously tense criminalists. Nick hissed when she accidentally brushed over the area of the bite mark.

"It was a lead; a confirmation of my suspicions. Kincaid suspected something about those patients; so much so, he gathered them into a group for questioning. He'd been talking to Joey for a little while; whatever he learned or suspected was enough for him to take over as those men's primary care giver."

Nick had stepped closer with every harsh word to punctuate his meaning. Grissom's expression was enough to know he was acting out of line. Nick backed away and thanked the nurse, who still hovered near him, for her ministrations, .

Louretta broke the awkward silence. "Go see your own doctor in a couple days for follow up care. If you don't see Dr. Know-it-all, make sure to drop by the ER for antibiotics and some pain pills. You're gonna being hurting mighty bad if you don't get anything other than aspirin."

"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you." Nick drawled heavy on the accent.

Louretta shook her head. "Sweet talkin' me with that southern accent doesn't work on me, cowboy. Be careful with that arm, or you'll ruin all my fine work."

Nick wasn't too offended by her bedside manner. The woman dealt with vicious criminals every day. It must have been tough to work in an environment like this.

Grissom didn't hide his misgivings about the situation.

The definitely not shy nurse glared at him. "I'm not busting open my cabinets. You going to pay for the damages? I think your guy can tough it out for just a bit."

Grissom didn't retort after seeing Nick's eyes on him. Sighing, he leaned against the wall, deep in thought. "We're been speculating about Stanfield. We need to leave and drop you by an ER. Get Brass down here, maybe even some others. Find out if Sara was able to identify the substance in their blood. Get a fresh sample of Leon's to the lab if possible."

Nick looked incredulous, still disbelieving, even if it was _his_ theory. "Murder by inmate, man?"

Grissom shrugged. "Happens all the times in prison; this time, our suspect might just be a bit more creative."

"Thinks he smarter too." Nick shook his head.

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "We need to be very vigilant about our surroundings."

"Um, you want to use our land line to call the Doc?" Franco came over trying to help.

Nick looked at his boss, but the supervisor addressed the guard."We should just leave." He didn't want to mention that tipping their hand to a suspect was not the best course of action.

Nick wasn't comfortable about turning tail, but deep inside he knew he'd feel a lot better back in the lobby and not within the confines of a maximum security mental ward.

Grissom allowed Franco to lead them into the hallway, still a bit wary of any staff member at this point. The two criminalists followed the Latino down the hall, the guard unsuccessfully trying to reach someone with a walkie- talkie. They walked for some time and the trio rounded a corner, when the two-way radio chirped.

"Franco, where the Hell are you? All Hell is breakin' loose here!"

The guard froze, the two criminalists almost bumping into him. Nick and Grissom stood by as the frantic security man hollered into the radio.

"I'm at the East Wing, near Row B. What's the problem?" The Latino asked, looking at both men.

"Power's out here on the West Wing; the computer's on the fuckin' fritz and all the gates are--"

Static garbled noise sputtered out. "Shit, now Row A! God damn it--"

The sentence was cut off, followed by a loud hissing noise.

Franco tried to change frequencies on the radio as Nick began to look around. "How much further 'til we reach--"

The lights flickered on and off, like a transformer gone wiggy. Shadows bounced around, the strobe effect like something out of a rock concert. Nick felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he stared up at the blinking illumination. His gut twisted as all three of them remained rooted like a pack of deer caught in the high beams of an on-coming car. Before he found his voice, the whole hall was cast in darkness, followed by a blaring alarm making them all cover their ears.

Nick could hear the frantic security guard try vainly to contact someone, anyone for information or help. The only noise was the crackle of dead air, and the blasting alarm that thundered in their ears.

Then everything fell silent. The pitch-blackness of the corridor was punctuated by those damn eerie red lights from the night the case started, five-second intervals of pulsating illumination.

"Can we find our way back to the infirmary, or are we near an exit?" Grissom's calm voice floated in the air.

Heavy breathing from the guard was the only response and the supervisor grabbed the man's shoulder to give it a light shake. "What are your emergency procedures for something like this?"

Grissom and Nick saw the cascading emotions flash before their eyes. " I dunno. I mean, if all the power's out is one thing. If there's a computer malfunction, then we're..."

"We're what?" Nick pressed for an answer.

"Then we need to get the Hell out of here."

Grissom felt the waves of fear from the young guard. "Why?"

The hall began to shudder from the sounds of metal doors clanking along rails. The echoes of scraping and low-pitched drone of old metal reverberated all around. The sounds of the building coming to life merged with the occasional scream and shouting off in the distance. Both criminalists strained to hear where the new sources of noise originated. The creaking of metal and the crashing of other objects closer by drew their attention a few hundred feet away.

"If the computer system went out, then all the key cards don't function anymore."

Nick felt his throat tighten. "Are there backup locks on all the cell doors?"

They could see the guard shake his head in a small, fearful gesture.

Nick swallowed. "Riiiiiight. Sedated prisoners are easy ones to control."

Franco wiped a droplet of sweat from his nose. "Yeah, I mean all of them have been given their nightly meds."

Grissom stepped closer, his face inches from the other man's. "So, what you're saying is that we better find a way out of here, before any of the inmates figure out that all their doors can be easily opened."

Both men heard an audible gulp. "Yes. Because if we don't hurry, a complete lock down will go into effect and we'll be trapped in here anyways."

Nick looked behind him, his paranoia Richter scale registering at its highest level. "Then let's move it, Boss, before any of the nice people here decide now would be a fun time to take a stroll."

tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

Franco, the lanky Latino who looked more like he belonged in a Miami model agency, than a prison guard, lead the CSIs carefully down the darkened hall. He seemed to lose all his nervousness; either too scared shitless to show it, or the responsibility for the safety of the two men in his company shook off his earlier anxiety. He directed the other two with hand signals, letting them know when to back off, or follow him around a  
corner.

Nick kept on his toes, ready to react to any commotion, his aching arm cradled against his chest. Grissom kept in step, peering through his spectacles at the carnival-like atmosphere of the infuriating pulsation of red flashes. Brick surrounded the hall they went down, but the next section of cells was only feet away. Squint and you were inside a fun house; the floor and ceiling wavered as the equilibrium of the corridor faltered. Each member of the trio trailed a hand along the wall for balance, the darkness a  
vortex, swirling the color of anger.

Franco gestured wildly for them to keep right behind him. Nick peered over his shoulder to see two inmates trying to navigate the sea of madness. It was the first time the younger criminalist realized that their escort was unarmed. He signaled with his hands about the lack of a gun. Franco ushered them back a few paces out of earshot of the roaming prisoners.

"No weapons during interviews. All of them are stored at the checkpoints," he whispered. Franco peered around the corner. "We got to keep moving. Just follow my lead."

Nick and Grissom huddled behind him as they stayed along the opposite wall. The noisome lighting made it difficult to see the loose inmates, let alone their expressions. Just brief images of intimidating people. As the trio came closer the men backed away, searching around them for other guards, struck temporarily uneasy by the bold posturing of Franco who never took his eyes off them. The three of them crossed in front of the prisoners.

Nick glared at them, but never made an aggressive move to set off any tempers. The confusion of the lights and total situation played in their favor, and they moved past the inmates who began plunging further into the darkness in the direction the trio had just vacated.

Nick heard Franco breathe a sigh of relief as they used the brick wall as a guide, edging along. Another few feet and Franco held out his arm, almost clipping Nick across the chest. Before he could protest a man whose silhouette was impossible to see from the darkness moved quickly out of his cell, blocking their path.

Another indistinguishable shape of a man, larger than the guard, around Grissom's age. He mirrored their attempts to simply move around him, matching step for step. Nick and the guard took similar postures, both sets of hands out front in warning, clear eye contact as best they could in the flashing lights and shadows. The man mumbled under his breath, as he stabbed in the air with his pointer finger.

"No, stay away," he growled, then rushed forward, only halting a few feet away.

"Get back in your cell," Franco ordered.

The man covered his eyes with his hand, muttering. "Go away," he warned.

"Return to your cell, prisoner," the Latino instructed. "We are under lockdown. Follow my command and you will not be punished."

The man wavered but backed up into the shoebox of a room, finger gesturing  
in the air intently.

"Seems calm authority is the trick," Grissom commented near Nick's ear. The CSI had to agree, though it did nothing to tame his wild heart, beating a mile a minute.

The trek past more cells was a harrowing experience. Encounters with scared men who remained huddled in their rooms. A few more dangerous prisoners shouted and hollered from where they were strapped to beds, cursing and wailing like howling animals in the night. The serene silence of the wing erupted into pounding and screams from every direction. Some sounds were those of the medicated, disturbed by the unusual interruption of typical carbon copy routines.

The most frightening thing was not the silent looks of men who did 'not' scare so easily, but the ones that watched as the three men moved down the hallways. It wasn't the few choice words and taunts lobbed by the more bold prisoners that were bothersome. It was the sight of vacant beds; their most recent occupants obviously roamed around other halls, hidden within the abyss of the maze that surrounded them that was disconcerting.

"Shouldn't there be more of a response? Where is security?" Grissom whispered, unable to contain some of the questions that demanded explanations.

The group huddled near the next intersection, Grissom's arm around his side, and Nick's eyes squeezed shut with obvious pain. Franco muttered in Spanish, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve; similar perspiration dripped down Nick's forehead and face.

"Don't know if the whole hospital is like this, dude. If level three is out, then they have to control the mass population. We only have about forty guys up here compared to the three hundred or so just below us," he explained in a hushed tone.

"Lots of measures to control people going in and out, but not much on the floor itself," Nick whispered, peeved at the lack of real control.

Franco kept a vigilant eye about. "Electronic locks, double doors and cameras at all points. Heavily medicated inmates, dude. This type of thing doesn't happen. If there's ever a problem, our security is here instantly, but with everything broken…? Then they got to remain at their posts for containment 'til things get fixed or SWAT is called in."

"Makes sense. Keep things from spreading," Grissom remarked. "How long until after containment is in place and they sweep in to return order?"

"Depends. Nothing like this has ever happened before. If there's mass chaos downstairs, then it might be a while. " The guard stood from his crouched position.

Grissom did so very stiffly, rubbing at his side. Nick didn't comment, knowing how much that kind of focus annoyed him. One thing was for sure, the bouncing lights gave him a splitting headache and he felt the timing of those flashes in the pulsation of the angry gashes in his arm. He swore he could feel every stitch that held his skin together as the flesh underneath boiled and burned.

He used his left hand to rub at his sweaty face and pushed back the hair that stuck to his forehead. Nick took a deep breath, "We keep movin', yeah?'

The guard nodded. "Let's go. The security checkpoint for this level is a few feet away."

Nick sort of recognized where they were but all the hallways were so similar and in the darkness he might as well have been blindfolded for all he knew. This stretch of corridor was away from the tiny cell barracks and opened up slightly. He noticed the first set of heavily barred sliding doors up ahead. Franco gestured at the both of them and they crept up towards their exit, when the Latino froze in his tracks.

Nick and Grissom followed the now haunted guard's gaze. There was a body on the floor. An ox-like man sprawled across the track of the door. Nick grit his teeth and instinctively reached for latex gloves that were no longer in his pocket. A quick look around and he and Grissom neared where the man lay. A large pool of blood was under and around the body. The CSIs cautiously approached the body, not wanting to contaminate the scene. It was obvious by the amount of red that the poor bastard had bled out.

Grissom avoided the crimson puddle and squatted near the heavy door. Upon closer inspection he noted that most of the guard's torso was spared damage. The man's head rested along the metal track that the door moved across. Nick grit his teeth as he lowered himself on his haunches. He took out his cell phone and used the glow from the screensaver to examine the bashed in side of the man's face.

"Someone used the sliding door to crush this guy's skull between the metal sides," Grissom reported.

Nick glared at him for stating the obvious; his fingers reached down in a futile effort to find a pulse. As he feared it was non-existent. Franco seemed to regain some composure, muttering in Spanish. Nick recognized it as a prayer for the dead and he try to express his sorrow for the death when he made eye contact with the Latino.

"That was George. We worked out together on Thursdays and Sundays, though the man did _not _need it. He used to be a bouncer at The Vortex on Saturdays for extras cash." The young man rubbed at his eyes. He stood up and avoided the blood on the floor. He tested the barrier; the metal gate crunched along the rail as he pushed it all the way over and sought out the control center tucked inside a cubicle.

The guard fished out some keys but simply moved the unlocked door ajar and moved around as he searched for the security controls.

"Where do you think the other guards are?" Nick asked the man.

"More blood," Grissom answered his question, as he searched the floor near the elevator.

Franco tried to use the phone, but someone had smashed all the controls, including the computer screen. There were prints all over the console made from bloody hands. The guard slammed his fist against the wall. "They might have tried to come out to control things on this floor, or stayed holed up until help came. If they were attacked, nothing could prevent someone from just coming in like we did, what with the electronics all fried."

"Weapons?" Nick asked.

Franco messed with a safe, and kicked it, letting go some anger. "One of the guards has the combo. Not me though."

Grissom pointed towards the elevator. "Does this work?"

Franco shook his head. "No can do. We've got to find another way out; the stairs are the only other option."

The three were reluctant to leave the carnage, but all of them knew to remain would only invite more trouble. They carefully exited the checkpoint and followed their escort down the hallway and further into the facility.

The group moved onward at an agonizing snail's pace through blackness, the ward looming so much bigger now. It had been some time since they encountered the violence of the security area. There had been no further signs of the other guards, or any staff members. There weren't many places to really hide; it was all sort of a game of cat and mouse.

Nick admired the security man; despite all of the chaos he was keeping things under control. They were his responsibility to keep safe in a bizarre and deadly situation. The anxiety of their escort was apparent as they slowed to a crawl when he approached a door. They had made it to the stairwell without any more incidents. He tested the knob and looked over at the Texan.

"Ready to enter?"

Nick nodded, braced to take point as if it was him and Warrick entering an unsecured scene, without the safety of their sidearms.

The guard mouthed the words. 'One. Two. Three.'

He yanked open the door, whose 'advanced' electronic lock had became an afterthought, both men stepping onto the short platform.

Nothing. No bogeymen hidden within the shadows. The trio carefully entered, Grissom shutting the door as quietly as possible. No red mantra of discord, but it meant no source of light at all. Nick and Franco took point, the guard up front.

He pointed down the flight of stairs that led to the third floor and, hopefully, safety. They descended down, shoes clomping on cement steps, no way to silence the noise. The rail was a lifeline; three sets of hands glided over warped metal into the chasm. Franco halted, staring off into space, head quirked for noise, but then cautiously signaled for them to move.

One more flight down and then they would find the door they sought, still not sure if the manual mechanisms worked, or if lockdown procedures had sealed them in. As they neared the third floor platform, four steps from the slab of concrete, there was an unmistakable sound of movement. A stream of bright light caused all three men to recoil blindly as a voice spoke in a hushed menace.

"Well, well. Looks like the key master is here."

Franco and Nick stood side by side, a united front, despite the pain in their eyes as pupils adjusted to the sudden onslaught of light.

The beam of light was directed away and under the chin of one of the prisoners. The ghostly illumination created more shadows on the wall, the man's face obscured by light and dark.

"Boo!" he taunted, followed by laughter. Two other men chuckled along.

The three members of law enforcement faltered, but stood their collective ground.

The inmate with the flashlight gave them a twisted smile. "Seem you boys don't have a light. I'd lend ya mine, but I think I'll keep it."

"You should get back to your cells. Terrance isn't it?" Franco's voice was calm.

The man gave an oily smile. "Afraid not, Franco. Why don't you join the party? Give us your keys and we'll be on our way." The prisoner moved closer with his minions beside him. The other two prisoners acted like hyenas, following every command of their big bad pack leader.

Nick kept his hands loose at his sides; the throbbing of his right arm just a distraction for now. Grissom stood readied for anything behind them. Nick knew his boss wasn't a lightweight but the bug man never really did anything too physical that he was aware of.

"If the door's locked from the outside, you can't do anything, Terrance. Might as well relax and go back to your bunk, wait for everything to chill."

Nick watched this Terrance guy process things. If Franco didn't have a way to open the door, then they were all trapped. Standing in the middle of a stairwell in the dark wasn't exactly the best of places for a fight. But there was only one way out: through them and back to the fourth floor. They were a threat even if unintentionally.

Before any of them could think of a strategy, the door above them slammed closed and a few more sets of feet clomped their way towards the group. Grissom turned around to face the new threat. The idea that both means of escape were cut off and that the three of them faced an ambush made him very fearful for the first time.

The footfalls loomed closer; the two men who taunted them from earlier slowed down, effectively blocking their way back up.

"Lookie, lookie, our pals from upstairs. Looks like we got some rats caught in a little trap, with nowhere to scurry away."

Two thugs hovered from above, glinting eyes locking with the others who blocked the other exit.

The Ringleader stepped closer, his sidekicks antsy next to him. "I think you're lying, Frankie baby. No way little piggies are gonna get caught with the big bad wolves without a way out."

"I only have a key card, I don't---"

The guard didn't have time to finish his sentence before someone yelled something about lies. One of the minions launched at the trio, enacting a ricochet of fury and motion.

The Ringleader and a minion grabbed the Latino by his shirt collar, yanked him off his feet and dragged him to the ground. Nick reacted by latching onto the Ringleader's shoulder and hauled him back, slamming the guy against the wall with a thud. The two cronies below wrestled with Franco in an attempt to keep him to the ground. Nick elbowed his guy in the belly as he hoped to wrangle one of the other men off of the guard to give him a chance.

The Ringleader swung the flashlight in a wide arc catching Nick right in the chops and sent him backwards onto the steps. Instead of waling on the fallen criminalist, the inmate let the two above take care of the job as the leader scrambled back down towards the melee that pummeled and overpowered the Latino. Franco had not gotten up from the fury of shoes and fists.

As soon as the fight broke out, Grissom protected Nick and the guard from behind, turning to face the duo of men above, ready to jump them. The supervisor knew he wasn't a match in strength or agility, so he used his brain, in the midst of darkness. One of the prisoners ran towards him, Grissom simply shifted out of the way and stuck his foot out to trip the guy who could not control his momentum.

Once the stocky guy fell head first, Grissom braced himself for his bigger buddy. The gorilla-like prisoner swung at him, missing wildly. The inmate's fist hit the wall instead with a crack. Enraged, the hulking ape growled and backhanded the supervisor, knocking his glasses off. Grissom stumbled while the man massaged sore knuckles from his encounter with the wall.

Nick felt the concrete step dig into his back, and bounded back to his feet as the guy who took a tumble down the stairs landed by his feet. The Texan wasn't a brutal man, but as he witnessed the beating that Franco fought against and heard his boss struggle with the second man from above. Nick kicked the inmate under his chin with his boot, the prisoner collapsing from the force. Nick's instincts were split in two. He wanted to rescue the guard who battled below him. Knowing who had the weakest position Nick spun around and raced up the stairs. Grissom was no match for two desperate hands that sought out his throat.

Nick's shoulder slammed into the larger man like a tackle dummy from his football days. He heard the big guy's breath blow out from the unexpected lunge. Nick pinned the guy down with his left hand as he punched the prisoner twice in the face as hard as he could. His hand popped as fingers met with a square jaw and he ignored the searing pain from his swings that tore at his injury.

The chaos on the third floor platform slowed as Franco was hopelessly outnumbered. The Ringleader let his minions get in one last kick as he joined the ruckus with the criminologists. He stepped over his fallen inmate and went after Nick.

The Texan heard the oncoming attack and screamed at Grissom. "Run back to the fourth floor!" Nick glared at the hesitant supervisor. "Go, Man. I'll be right behind ya!"

Nick slammed his boot along Flashlight guy's shin and the man howled in pain. "Grissom, now!"

The supervisor didn't want to leave Nick behind. He brushed past the younger man, looking behind him. "Come on, Nick," he encouraged.

Franco was unconscious, no match against too many numbers. One prisoner simply sat on the slumped prison guard's unmoving form triumphantly. The fourth guy charged up the stairs to aid in taking out the young criminalist. Nick's next swing glanced off the ringleader's chin with no real force behind the blow. The prisoner retaliated with a left hook of his own, smashing into the side of Nick's face that received the earlier punishment. Nick saw stars and swayed on his feet, slightly stunned. The ringleader took advantage and jabbed the metal flashlight into the criminalist's side.

"Go after the old guy," Ringleader instructed the fourth man.

The lanky prisoner did as ordered and whizzed past the head of the pack. The man chased Grissom who fled further up the stairs. The supervisor hoped to trip the beanpole, but the younger, taller inmate was too fast. Grissom had just reached the last step of the flight in hopes of pulling off another dodge em' trick. Fingers dug into his shoulder and threw him down the sprawl of steps. The older man tried to break his fall, landing on hands and knees, his joints vibrating as he rolled down. Grissom moved just in time to avoid a thunderous kick that connected with his hip and not his stomach.

The supervisor didn't stay down long as he stood up to defend himself. His left leg almost crumbled when a terrible pain ripped through a knee that had twisted during his tumble. He held up his arms as the speedy man was on top of him again. Beanpole punched his sore ribs as Grissom did what he could to protect his body. He managed to surprise the guy with a right jab to the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of his opponent. Grissom breathed heavily, and couldn't stay on the offensive, giving the guy enough time  
recover.

Nick couldn't catch his breath as the air was forced out of his lungs when the metal flashlight struck him hard. The heavy object landed on his shoulder next. Then another wild swing of the flashlight missed his face, when he moved out of the way in time. He ignored all his pain and kneed the ringleader in the gut once, then twice. Still gasping for breath, he balled both fists up and slammed them at the back of the inmate's neck, sending him to his knees. The flashlight clattered to the ground, its beam of light  
useless on the floor. Nick mustered all his strength and slammed his right hand into the side of the ringleader's throat. The guy dropped to the floor in an instant.

He hurt all over, but Nick stumbled up the flight of stairs to keep the last inmate from punching Grissom again. Nick captured the guy's wrist at an odd angle, causing the guy to let out a small yelp. Adrenaline flowed through his veins and Nick sent the wrist down on his knee, wrist held at a sharp angle. The bones snapped and the prisoner hollered in pain. Nick brushed past him, thrusting his shoulder against the man's body to push him out of the way.

"Let's go," he panted at Grissom. Nick saw the supervisor gingerly follow while sporting an obvious limp. Nick wasted no time and swung Grissom's arm around his shoulder, hauling him as best he could up the stairs.

It was a slow, painful few steps. Both men sort of lurched and hobbled along. Two more angry beasts who had been down temporarily gained enough of their bearings and rage to chase after the criminalists.

Somewhat injured and slow, Nick and Grissom made it to the door of the fourth floor, only to face another onslaught of anger. Both exhausted, they turned side by side, ready for one more round.

There was nowhere to run or duck in such a confined space. Two bodies charged at them, each CSI propelled along the wall and past their escape. The door was just a cruel few feet away. The two inmates were just as battered as the CSIs and there was hope of a possible even match up. A few groans from the stairs below meant that at least one more inmate was readying to jump into the fray, tilting the odds out of their favor.

Just as the inmates reared fists back to pound away at the criminalists, the exit door swung open and another man joined the ranks. Nick wanted to laugh at the insurmountable odds, flight and fight guiding his reflexes. The two prisoners intent on making them lunch meat grunted in surprise when something stuck them hard at the back of their heads.

Nick risked a sudden glance at Grissom. Both their backs were to the wall, trapped by a new scuffle. It was impossible to see, but they heard shouts and ranting. A man swung furiously with something, attacking the inmates and giving the criminalists a moment of reprieve.

Nick panted. "Franco," he heaved in between heavy breathing.

They couldn't move, their path blocked by the three men in the midst of battle. Two inmates slumped to the ground. A man wielding a wooden stick of some kind grunted and stood aside as they crumbled to the floor.

"Let's go!"

Nick's body froze, eyes desperately tried to adjust at the fleeting glimpse of sickening red light that flashed through the small crack in the door.

That voice. He knew that inflection, that tone.

"Come on, Nick, we don't have all day."

He felt Grissom's body stiffen, his supervisor identifying their rescuer.

Nigel Crane stepped closer, drab green jumpsuit and his infamous geeky, thick glasses. He held a broom between clenched fists. A glee in his dark eyes. The man's chest heaved as he jerked his head towards the door. "Don't be so surprised. I work on this floor and knew you'd get into a jam."

Even in the middle of a war zone, Crane was steadfast cool. It made Nick's blood sizzle. He ignored Crane, looking at Grissom. "We need to help Franco."

The supervisor was obviously torn, calculating the risks of trying to rescue the man who had to be dead or seriously injured.

Red flash.

Darkness.

Red flash.

Darkness.

There was a scramble of feet from below. The Ringleader and the guy Nick had kicked in the chin took to the gambit.

"You guys are dead!" the ringleader bellowed.

Nigel spun around, broomstick in hand. God-awful joke, Nick thought, but the man somehow seemed menacing with such a stupid weapon. Two prisoners down for the count was a testament to that.

"Back away." Nigel warned, wooden weapon ready to do more damage.

The Ringleader and his cronies looked down at their buddies who began to stir just slightly, still minutes away from getting up.

"What's the deal, Man? This ain't no dirty floor to scrub. Let us deal with the piggies and scram," the self-appointed head honcho ordered.

Nigel didn't budge. "I have dibs." He advanced slowly at the other inmates. "Mine first."

Nick swallowed thickly, ever so slowly maneuvering him and Grissom closer towards the open exit, while Crane was distracted.

"Wait for me out in the hall, Nick," Nigel instructed, his focus on the standoff.

Nick's jaw popped from being so clenched; the bastard watched his moves, even with his eyes pointed the other direction. He helped Grissom towards the door, risking a glance towards the lower steps. "Franco!" he hollered.

One of the men who Nigel clobbered moved slightly. With lightening speed Crane walloped the back of the guy's head with a, "Whack!" His weapon at ready again. "I said, out the door, Nick."

The younger criminalist wavered, torn at helping the guard, and facing another stand off, now with Nigel somehow in the mix. With regret, he exited out of the corridor, Grissom limping along beside him. Once he was out of the stairwell, he tried to encourage the supervisor to hobble away fast and further from the source of his newfound harsh and ragged breathing.

Grissom leaned on Nick's shoulder. "Do you know which way you're going?" he whispered.

Nick never felt so much undirected outrage. "No," he grunted.

They moved along like two drunks, blind as bats, red bursts of light some twisted taunt. Before they rounded a corner, Nick felt a hand grab his free arm.

"You didn't wait for me," Nigel accused.

Without warning, Nick nearly dropped Grissom when he whirled around. Strong hands grabbed clumps of jumpsuit and he flung Nigel into the nearest wall, his face inches from Crane's. Nick lifted Nigel to his toes, ignoring the flash of heat across his arm, new pains all over his body. With barely contained fury he shook the man slightly.

'What are you doing?" he seethed.

Nick's hands shook, his body trembled. Nigel let his eyes soak in the sight of the man who slowly cracked in front of him. The ex-cable man smiled.

"I'm looking after you. Saved you and your friend." Nigel cleared his throat. "No need to thank me, of course."

Nick didn't know what to do; his mind sort of short-circuited, his face faltered. Before he could give in to the flood, a gentle hand rested on his shoulder.

"Nick."

"Nicky!"

He let go of his former stalker; hands fell to his sides, as Grissom squeezed his bicep. "Take a deep breath," he whispered low in his ear.

Crane dusted off his uniform, looking put out, and snorted. "That's not a nice way to treat someone, you know."

Nick breathed heavily though his flaring nostrils. Grissom held on to his arm, an anchor for the both of them. "What do you want, Crane?"

The janitor finally broke contact with the younger man and shrugged. "I don't want...anything. If you didn't notice, the place has kind of gone to Hell in a hand basket."

"Yeah. It'll settle down soon," Grissom stated, calmly.

It was difficult to tell in between darkness and light, but Crane smiled. "Yeah, maybe. However, it's kind of dangerous for the two of you to be left out here all on your own. You know where you're going?"

Grissom knew where this lead, dreading the implications, hating the unintentional empowerment. "We'll be fine." He turned to Nick. "Let's go. We need to see if you're all  
right."

Nick laughed. It was a scary sound. "You should talk."

Grissom tried to urge him away...away from this horror. It was the first time he noticed the fresh blood on Nick's arm. "We need a place to think."

Nick turned his head; Grissom knew that look, even without seeing it in proper light.

"What choice do we have, Gris?"

The supervisor swallowed, glancing at Crane, not seeing the glint in his eyes...in the victory. "Nick," he warned.

Nick felt the strain, the clamp over his mind, and the muscles in his body so tight and stiff it felt if he moved the wrong way they would snap. "Those guys will be here soon and God knows how many more."

Grissom was silent, knowing the truth when he heard it, but he'd be damned if he said so out loud.

Nigel closed the distance between them. "Come on. I know a safe place to hole up for a little while."

Crane turned his back to them, the sign that he knew they'd follow. Grissom bit his lip, and shared an uneasy look with his co-worker. "Maybe there's another way. We don't have to, Nick."

The Texan locked eyes with him. "We don't have a choice," he said, his voice so thick it was guttural.

Grissom exhaled slowly, leaned on his co-worker and hobbled next to him. They ventured into the darkened abyss, their tour guide a man out of nightmares.

* * *

tbc... this was one of my favorite chapters of the story. 


	11. Chapter 11

Nick squinted. It was an exercise in futility. He battled against pitch-blackness alternating with dizzy lights. Each fucking flash of bulb beat to the searing pain in his arm. Nick fought a queasy stomach; the hallway lurched with every step. He tried his best to balance his equilibrium. The haunted house special effects were made more cumbersome by the added weight of his charge. The older man hobbled along the best he could; Grissom had been silent, not more than a slight grunt here, a flinch there.

Whenever it felt like they were about to take a tumble to the floor, the supervisor would pull away, giving Nick an _are you all right_?' look he quickly brushed off with a quick nod. He was far from doing okay. He had left the defenseless guard to be slaughtered by a pack of animals. The younger criminalist re-ran the hallway scenario over and over again, with the same terrible result each time.

Nick shifted Grissom's arm when his aching body protested a bit too much. He couldn't help but wonder if they were lambs being lead to some new butcher. The trek was tedious and Nigel took every opportunity he could to send a glance behind his shoulder at their pace. The janitor muttered about excess baggage just loud enough for both men to hear. Nick kept as much distance as possible without losing the man in the dark.

Neither CSI had any clue which direction they were going; it was a maze in treacherous territory. The only good thing was that the screams and cries tapered off a bit in this new area. The trio neared another block of cells, some doors open, others closed, oblivious to the world. Nick heard the familiar whine of terrified men, wrapped up in living, breathing madness. Shadows of people flickered across his vision; invisible men, avoiding anyone else. He was glad that most of these prisoners suffered from paranoia.

His arm throbbed, undoubtedly the salt of sweat making its way along the line of stitching, some of which was undoubtedly open from the warm stickiness he felt in some spots of skin.

Both men jumped when a sudden '_Whack_!' echoed in the corridor.

Grissom pulled his weight off the other man, hoping to give Nick a break. Neither stirred as Nigel warned a prisoner away who had veered too close. "Seems he's handy with a broom."

Nick frowned. The janitor taunted someone inside their cell, broken handle to an everyday cleaning tool now a precious weapon. The stand off over, Crane beckoned the other two with a curt head-nod forward.

Nick didn't budge for a moment, unable to see thick glasses that stared back in challenge. The smaller man simply ventured on, both CSIs having no choice but to follow.

"Easy, Nicky," Grissom whispered in his left ear.

The open halls and close proximity of his present company were stifling, suffocating. It was a whole other trap, with another unwilling role forced upon him. The cracks inside the dam had so many holes it was impossible to keep control anymore. The only thing he latched on to was responsibility.

For anything else that happened.

"You know, Nick. We could just put your friend in one of the cells. I'm sure he'd be safe and could even sleep while all this tapers off," Nigel suggested after ten minutes of silence.

Nick froze, almost ready to bolt. His supervisor stiffened, ready for a sudden change in plans.

Quiet laughter filled the air. "Fine. If you guys would stop being so damn slow we would have gotten where we needed to a while ago," he said annoyed.

"Where are we goin', Nigel?" Nick asked, as he glanced around for any attention that their talking sparked.

"What fun is it, if I tell you that?"

He felt muscles twinge as he prepared to lash out. He hated this vulnerability more than anything. Just as tendons spasmed before a launch, Nick felt Grissom's hands dig into his side and shoulder, the man's feet like the oldest, largest tree roots. His supervisor kept him immobile.

_Where the Hell was this strength coming from?_ he thought, as his supervisor's breathing increased with the effort.

He knew he could break free, but something old and familiar tugged inside him. The need to listen, to trust, to impress with professionalism. It was so fucking hard. Betrayal and distrust reared its ugly head. Dr. Bale's words and revelations fresh in his mind. Grissom's perception that he was incapable to handle anything. Nick Stokes, too fucking fragile to deal with the truth. Nick's body trembled in response, the internal battle made physical.

"Nick."

It wasn't condescending, or commanding. It was a plea. Nick let his body sag, much to the relief of the other man. Nigel remained silent during the whole struggle. He couldn't see the way the janitor's jaw clenched at the battle and then subsequent control that the supervisor had over the younger man.

Nick sighed, his only signal to his boss of acceptance. The duo moved onward, Grissom's limp longer and more pronounced. They had only moved another few feet when Nick noticed a man slumped against the wall. He'd seen a few inmates made near catatonic with the mixture of medications and chaotic environment, but something propelled him to give this a closer inspection.

Despite a non-verbal protest from his superior Nick ushered Grissom towards the man rocking back and forth against the brick. Grissom leaned on the wall while the younger criminalist squatted down. He groaned when sore muscles moved in new directions.

Nick held his hands in a calming manner as the man let out a squeak of fright, arms folded around knees, most of the man's face buried behind them.

He turned towards Grissom. "It's Sheldon Tanner," he whispered.

Upon the soft words the man nearly rolled into a ball, garbled mumbles and sounds of fright muffled by fabric. Nick didn't know how to proceed; didn't want to touch the man and overly scare him. "Mr. Tanner?"

"Please," the man cried, the rocking back and forth more persistent.

Nick frowned. "Why don't you go back to bed?" It sounded stupid, but he didn't know what else to do.

A mop of blond hair popped up, more slobber on the lower lip. Shaking of the head back and forth, eyes squeezed closed. "Leave me alone," the man mumbled.

Nick looked at Grissom who studied the sad state of affairs.

"Punish me all you want, just make them all go away," Tanner pled.

Nick leaned closer, wary. Ready. "Who?" he asked.

Grissom stepped closer to Nick as Crane wandered over, bored, annoyed, dark eyes focused on Nick and the distraught patient. For the first time Crane made physical contact with the Texan; a hand shook the other man's shoulder.

"Don't waste time, Nick," he instructed.

Before Nick could let loose his fiery tongue, Grissom stepped in between both men. "Nick's talking to one of our suspects."

Crane stared at the older man; body fidgeted, but didn't budge. Grissom peered down at Nick sending waves of calm and time for distraction. The entomologist didn't like the feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't move an inch away, crowding Nick, but for good reason.

Tanner mumbled away, nonsense babble, none of which Nick could follow with any focus. Not with Grissom nearly on top of him and Nigel urging him to leave. One thing was for sure, Sheldon Tanner was completely incoherent. One look at his face was enough of an indication that he was farther gone than during the interview.

Nick moved away cautiously as the patient began wildly gesturing at them.

"You won't take me!" the inmate bellowed before scrambling backwards and curled his body back up to rock back and forth again.

Nick stood up, glancing at his boss who finally backed away. "You think it's possible some of these men were drugged again?"

Grissom obviously didn't like the implications of that suspicion. He let the question wash over him, eyes trained on Crane who still loomed too close for comfort. The man's body language was much more nervous...possessive.

"It was dinner time when we got here. Perhaps...if it was Rhodes and he did want to try something, no matter how unorthodox, he might have had time to slip the same unidentified substance into their nightly meds," Grissom postulated. "Risky to do all over again."

Nick chewed on his bottom lip. "Ivan was certainly more 'out there' than the first interview."

Grissom nodded in the dark. Nick cradled his right arm to his side, not fully aware of the action. "I wonder where Joey is." He looked around lost.

"We don't have time for this," Nigel hissed.

Nick's body reacted before his brain. He moved forward before a firm hand gripped his bicep. Nick instantly shrugged it off. He glared at Grissom with fierce eyes at the same time that waves of recrimination laid into him. When had his emotions gone so unchecked? Where was all this anger coming from? He closed his eyes, trying to rein in some calm, but he felt crushed.

Neither criminalist spoke before the janitor spun on his heel, stalking further into the darkness. Nick cleared his throat quietly, nodded his apology to his boss and leaned his shoulder over as an offering.

"Should we just leave him like this?" Nick sort of watched the inmate lose himself to whatever swallowed him whole. The man was a rapist; a terrible bane to society. It wasn't his place to judge, but there was a time and place for punishment.

Grissom was silent; no words could provide the correct answers or hope. After a moment it was time to move on before losing Nigel to the underbelly of the prison.

"You still feel up to being a taxi service?" Grissom asked, draping an arm around Nick's left side.

The Texan actually smiled. "Just don't ask me how expensive the fare is."

* * *

Grissom was dead tired and sore all over. It hurt to breathe, although not as much as when he broke a few ribs when he was twenty. No, this was age catching up. He wasn't the most active guy when it came to hitting the gym, but he had never felt this out of shape before. Maybe he did spend too much time behind a microscope. He tried not to depend on the other criminalist too much. It was his duty to be on alert; following Crane around was the worst-case scenario personified.

Thankfully there were few encounters with anyone else, which ironically worried him greatly. Where were all the loose inmates? He didn't have time to ponder such random thoughts as Crane led them to a new section of the prison. Nick sort of froze, his body shifted to the right, the first time he seemed unable to support his weight, slightly lurching to one side.

Before Grissom could adjust his weight, Nigel turned to face them.

"Come on. We'll be safe here."

It took a few minutes to pass between tiled floors and ceilings before both criminalists knew exactly where they were. Grissom heard the slight chuckle from his colleague about their given environment. Without the annoying sickness of flashing red lights they were bathed in darkness.

The supervisor tensed along with his co-worker at the total lack of light.

"You two scared of the dark?" Crane taunted.

Before either of them responded, a click echoed inside and the white beam from a small flashlight emerged from Nigel Crane's hands. Then man directed the light around, the stream of illumination landing on the pair, both scientists squinting in result.

"You've had a flashlight the entire time," Grissom stated, feeling his own slip of control.

Crane waved the beam around. "Of course. Part of my supplies. Why would I try to attract attention on our little journey? Come on, wouldn't want all the loons around here following us."

Nick let go of his burden as he stomped over towards the inmate. Nick and Nigel locked eyes and the criminalist snatched the flashlight out of his grasp. He shined the beam under Nigel's chin; for once it was the other man blinking uncomfortably.

"I'll be borrowing this," Nick instructed. There was no room for argument from his tone.

Crane pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "You're bleeding, Nick."

His grip on the flashlight tightened as he rubbed at the corner of his mouth, smearing the blood there along the edge of his hand. Nick could taste the copper, the wound from the hard blow to his jaw during the staircase fight. He shined the light around, the beam illuminating the open set of community showers.

"Nice hide out," Nick remarked dryly.

Nigel smiled. "Last place anyone wants to be caught in the dark."

The CSI wandered over towards Grissom who sat against the cold tiled wall watching both men. The older man had his bum leg stretched out in front of him. Nick crouched next to him. "Wish we had some ice for your knee. You know how bad it is?"

Grissom rubbed at the injured joint, grimacing slightly. "Feels pretty swollen, though I won't be stripping anytime soon to make sure."

Nick actually smiled. "Yeah. You hurt anywhere else?"

The supervisor rested his head and closed his eyes briefly. "Nothing a nice hot shower at home won't cure. Kind of banged up, but nothing broken." He opened his dark blue eyes to study the younger man in front of him. "Why don't I take that light?"

Nick automatically handed the instrument over to Grissom's open hand. The supervisor switched it to a weaker setting so it wasn't so bright. "Take a seat, Nick. Let's see how you fared after being a one man army a little while ago."

Grissom reached out to inspect Nick's arm, but the Texan pulled it away. The supervisor tried not to sound like some exasperated parent, but he was cranky and in no mood for any stubbornness. "Nick, stop being so obstinate."

The younger criminalist wasn't being valiant, he was just uneasy under the present company. He didn't appreciate the verbal jab any less. He looked around the shower area, noting the absence of Crane. Nick kept his injured arm towards his body and allowed Grissom to shine the light without any prodding.

Blood caked one end of the bandage, but it seemed to have clotted. "The bleeding stopped. Must have re-opened the stitches during the fight." Nick pulled it away from any more inspection.

"We should try to re-wrap it. Clean it if possible to prevent infection," Grissom said, still trying to reach out and take a look for himself.

"You sure order Nick around a lot," Crane said with a leer from the shadows. He approached the supervisor, then threw a small towel at the young CSI. "Found this. I know you're capable of taking care of yourself."

Nick ignored the comment and folded the garment up around his arm for extra protection. Grissom didn't waste any time discussing things with the inmate, his attention still focused in front of him. "Did you suffer any blows to the head?"

The older man flashed the light over Nick's face revealing several fresh bruises beginning to form on his cheek. Grissom frowned as he tilted the beam down the short-sleeved shirt, ignoring dried up blood stains from earlier. Grissom knew the younger man wouldn't want to draw attention to himself, but he needed to know if Nick was hurt anywhere else.

Crane lowered himself to the same level as the two criminalists. "Need a hand? I could be a good nursemaid."

Nick scrambled up off the floor, reaching his feet as he used the wall for leverage. "Stay back," he warned the janitor with a glare. Nick turned towards his boss. "I'm fine."

"You know, Nick. When this is all over, maybe you should take a break from work. Go out and buy some of nice wood. Use that carving kit to whittle a new bird piece to add to your collection. I could help pick out the color stain."

Nigel stepped closer to the Texan who just stood motionlessly, like some trapped animal. Crane smiled. "You still like mahogany?"

"Quit playing games, Crane. It's a waste of time. You can't get to Nick that way." Grissom's voice broke the trance the other man had been lost in. Nick glanced backwards at his boss but said nothing.

"I'm not doing anything. I can't have a conversation with a friend?" Nigel entered the area bathed in light from the beam that rested in the entomologist's hands. "Do you know which species of birds are left in his collection?"

Grissom didn't reply and Nigel didn't miss a beat. "Or did you even know about his hobby?"

"Do you even know what he likes to eat? His favorite color?" Nigel didn't stop long enough for the supervisor to retort. He bent down, almost looming over the older man. "You're his supervisor, his idol. For someone who's worked with him for so long, you don't know very much about him."

Nick walked into the darkness, Nigel's babbling about intimate details of his life resounding in his head. The man was baiting his supervisor about things that were stolen from him. Moments Crane had snatched away like a god damned thief and the man was gloating about it.

All his cherished quiet time at home. Asleep in his bed, conversations on the phone, meals. Nick rubbed at his eyes, recalling how relieved he had been years ago that he had not been involved with anyone at the time.

Yet Nigel Crane was all wrong. He was stuck in the past and he wasn't the same Nick Stokes that was so damn fascinating a few years ago. Not at all.

"Obviously you don't have a clue how much Nick values his privacy." Grissom's voice drifted inside the room.

Something about those words...the fucking irony of it all. Grissom seemed to have quite a hand in his privacy. On what he was allowed to know and deal with.

Nick's own voice echoing inside the god damned box, sharing last bits of sorrow, uttering dying words of regret, only to be shared 'after' death. They had been heard, been communicated, without his knowledge.

"What was the last conversation you two had that didn't involve a dead body?"

Nick felt his stomach heave, despite its emptiness, just unmerciful hacks that served to draw attention and agitated his sore shoulder and side. He spat several times, clearing his raw throat. He wiped at his chin, feeling a storm brew under the surface. All this time brooding over stolen moments when they had left a man to die at the hands of sickos worse than Nigel Crane. People had suffered worse fates than what he allowed his mind to wallow in.

Nick marched over into the cloud of light, and stuck his hand in the air to cut off the inevitable question. He ignored the janitor for the time being and looked directly at his boss.

"We should do something about Franco." It was a statement, plain and simple.

Grissom was obviously unprepared for this subject, squinting. "I don't follow, Nick."

"We left him in that hallway. He could still be alive. There could be other guards or even patients out there wounded, or dying."

Grissom shifted uneasily. "I'm aware of this, but we're short on options."

"We don't have any idea what's goin' on out there, Man. We've got inmates running around, some of them hopped up on who knows what. We need to let someone know what's going down in here. Let the authorities know about Dr. Rhodes. Maybe even try to find Franco, see if they left him alone once they couldn't get past that door." Nick stared at his boss, all seriousness on his face.

Grissom shook his head in disbelief. "We didn't just leave Franco behind. We were ambushed and nearly killed."

"We didn't have time to think back there, Grissom. You couldn't move very well. We were surprised, but now..."

"But now, nothing, Nick." Grissom's voice raised with his ire. "You need to calm down. Think things through. We were very lucky in that stairwell. You're not Superman- we're outnumbered."

"It's our duty to try to communicate to the outside, let people know what they are dealing with. This isn't some riot. It's an orchestrated means for homicide. Someone tried to kill us, Gris. Are we just gonna wait for the rest of the prisoners to find us?"

Grissom seemed at a loss for words. "No, we're going to wait until..."

"We become the next victims," Nick cut him off. He looked at his supervisor who was staring at him with that look that made him ill. "There's got to be a phone around here. A land line."

"The infirmary and Dr. Rhodes' office both have phones," Crane chimed in after being so suspiciously quiet.

Grissom stared coldly at the man, knowing the inmate had hidden agendas. "Nick..."

"Which one is the closest?" Nick turned to face the janitor.

Crane actually looked eager, giddy almost. "Dr. Rhode's office. The infirmary is clear on the other side of the block. Plus, all the whackos would want to get their greedy little hands on all the goodies in those locked pharmacy cabinets."

Nick looked even more tense. Crane almost beamed with good news. "They have manual locks on the doors besides the electronic ones. I'm sure everyone inside is safe, Nick."

Nigel Crane even smiled something akin to encouragement. "In fact, I'm sure they're safe."

Grissom was busy looking back and forth between both men, not sure if he had just entered the Twilight Zone.

"What about Dr. Rhode's office? What kind of locks are on there?"

"Key card," the janitor answered. "It would be easy to enter. Phone's on the desk. Phone line is separate from the electronic security."

Nick nodded, plan formulating. People were hurt, his supervisor one of them. They all needed help. He needed to get away.

"If you reach some of your friends or the police, they could get clear information to the SWAT team which is bound to enter here. They don't really care too much about the prisoners as long as order is contained. Some of the staff here or even a select few prisoners might get injured in a full blown assault."

Crane's words were calculated, every line carefully executed. Grissom couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Nick, we need to stay put."

The janitor shrugged. "Mr. Grissom is right. I mean, I hear containment is successfully resolved with minimum loss of life. Estimates around 10 percent or so. That's if they get here in time. If the third floor is compromised, then it could take hours before they get up here."

He wasn't a fool; he knew what Crane was doing, his scenarios carefully constructed, but deep down inside, Nick knew the kernel of truth.

"Nick, we didn't have a choice back there in that stairwell. Listen to me," Grissom pleaded.

"Listen to your boss, Nick. He knows what is best for you," Nigel echoed like a parrot.

Nick looked at his supervisor, at his desperate need for trust about the situation. Nick gave his supervisor the same pained plea in his eyes. "We're talking about giving valuable information to the authorities. We can let people know what's goin' on in here."

Grissom shook his head, not even listening to his words. "Nick, you have to trust me."

He swallowed; his face betrayed the effect of those words. He looked over at Crane. "Can you tell me exactly how to get there?"

The inmate looked surprised, but carefully covered. "Maybe five minutes; it's really close. Though it would be better if I showed you."

Nick shook his head. "No, some detailed instructions are fine. I want you to stay here, with Grissom, just in case someone finds you guys holed up here."

It was risky placing the safety of his supervisor in the hands of Nigel Crane. In the stairwell they got lucky…all sorts of twisted Nick Stokes' brand of luck. They had been rescued by the unlikeliest of people. The next time there was no doubt in his mind that they would be discovered. Then what?

Crane and his broom handle? Him and his ripped open, throbbing arm versus a mass of prisoners? They needed to reach a phone; someone needed to alert the authorities about the _exact_situation. Grissom couldn't move if something happened, he couldn't protect the man. Just like he couldn't prevent Franco from being taken by that mob.

Crane began to protest, but Nick wouldn't have any of it. He actually stepped closer, and placed his hand on the man's shoulder. Nick kept the tremble still, swallowed against disgust. "I need you to watch over my boss. He can't move around. I'm...I'm counting on you."

Nigel Crane for once was at a loss for words. He nodded. Now it was Nick's turn to smile. "Now tell me how to get here."

Grissom had managed to stand up before the conversation of tactics. He was hopelessly lost in some other dimension. What the Hell was going on? No amount of reprimand or scolding worked. Nick was bound and determined to find help. His criminalist wasn't listening to him, to his damn good, logical reasons. It wasn't until later that he realized his grievous error.

Nick began to leave with no flashlight or weapon. Grissom touched his shoulder. Knowing there was no argument left, he let the young man know who was still in charge. "If you're not back in 10 minutes, I'm coming to get you."

Grissom stood there, as obstinate as he felt his young co-worker was acting. In fact he almost saw a flush of warmness, of gratefulness, that was quickly gone.

"All right," Nick drawled.

"Ten minutes, Nicky," Grissom threatened.

Then his CSI was gone. Swallowed up by the labyrinth of the mental ward. The supervisor spun around, bad knee and all. He grabbed two handfuls of jumpsuit, his eyes as cold as death itself. "I swear to God, Crane, if something happens to him..."

Crane calmly pried the man's hands off of him, and gave him a small smile. "I'll never let anything happen to Nick." Crane coughed. "Unlike you."

* * *

tbc... 


	12. Chapter 12

Gil Grissom stared at the ticking hands of his watch; every circle around the number twelve an added minute since Nick had left. Another sixty seconds of second-guessing so many things. He rubbed at his angry knee and cursed his lack of physical prowess. When had things gotten so complicated? When was he ever going to destroy that filter between his brain and mouth?

Losing the prison guard was just another nail in the coffin. He grimaced at his poor choice of irony. It all went back to last May. And to a certain extent from his decisions regarding the ex-cable man who sat a few feet away from him, staring at him through thick-rimmed glasses. The supervisor wondered if it was through those that Crane filtered his imaginary world. What did he see from behind those frames?

"You underestimate Nick."

Grissom shifted slightly, not interested in playing with the wannabe puppet master. "You've never been more wrong," he answered.

"You don't know him."

Grissom felt compelled to stare at Nick's blood on his pants. He ran his fingers over the crusted fabric. "Neither do you," he stated, fascinated by it somehow.

Crane leaned forward with an expression of triumph. "You admit it though. That he's a mystery to you. Sort of a case you don't understand. Must be frustrating."

He had let Nick go into a pit of piranhas, because he lacked the words to stop him...to get through. Just like when Nick returned to work after the summer and had left his office after the Kelly Gordon case. He let opportunity slip through his fingers.

Words failed him.

A year ago, Nick would have listened to him, would have relied on that foundation of trust even if he didn't understand it. That was what faith in others was all about. A bedrock of mutual respect and confidence.

"Don't know why he ever looked up to you. How could you ever possibly get him?"

What had been the point of getting his guys back if he couldn't learn to talk to one of them? Any of them? Walter Gordon's voice haunted him in his sleep. _What does Nick Stokes mean to you?_

He didn't answer Gordon because how could he ever articulate a question like that into words. Part of him still wondered if it was the guilt of not knowing how to respond. Because he didn't _know_ until then. Until it was almost too late.

"I understand Nick. I know what disappointment can do. We have this bond, this connection you'll never realize."

Grissom took his flashlight and clicked it to high and shined it right in the man's eyes, shutting up his tirade. "Everyone feels somehow connected when they speak to Nick. It's who he is. It's one of his pillars of strength. You're just one of many who have felt at ease around him."

The janitor shook his head. "No. I wasn't just some cable guy he felt obligated to talk to. We...we shared something." The inmate stood up and stormed over towards the criminalist.

"He saved me. He didn't want me to die...he...didn't want to lose our special bond." Nigel Crane towered over the supervisor, animated, angry.

"You see something in Nick that lacks in your life: the ability to care for others. To act selflessly." Grissom spoke, even if his mind told him not to feed into the man's delusions, into arguments fought within the prisoner for years.

Crane ran his hand through his thinning hair. "I killed for him." He looked at the other man. "I still would."

"Can you do something greater?" Grissom found himself challenging the other man. A stupid and reckless thing to do.

The inmate squinted, clearly confused.

"Can you imagine being in his shoes?" The supervisor felt as if he had reached a great epiphany...swallowing hard as it all came down around him.

Nigel didn't give a snappy comeback.

Grissom stared at his watch as he struggled to stand with one bum leg. After some difficulty he looked over. "Let's go find him."

Nigel Crane looked ready to argue, but acquiesced to the authority of the other man. "Don't hobble around too slowly, or I'll leave you behind," he muttered.

Grissom ignored how stiff and painful his knee screamed at him from the movement. He did the best he could to remain mobile, using the walls as support. No matter how much it hurt him, he'd keep up. Grissom wasn't about to let another situation transpire that he'd regret.

* * *

Nick kept his back towards the wall, eyes forward, his left arm out behind his body to make sure no one tried to sneak up on him. Of course it didn't keep him from constantly stealing glances behind his shoulder, ears on full alert for sounds. It wasn't tough. The corridor was deadly quiet. If it was nauseating fun for him to navigate these halls, it certainly was for the prisoners as well. He imagined that this was the last place they would want to be caught.

From his calculations, half of them were still strapped in their beds, the others too scared to leave the confines of their cells, or were not interested in venturing out to cause trouble. The scary thing was that there was a possible twenty or so inmates loose inside the fourth floor, and eventually they would find their temporary sanctuary.

Nick rounded a corner and froze at the scatter of feet at the opposite end of the hall. He felt the brick behind him, body pressed against the wall. Red, angry snapshots of the hallway every five seconds. There in the distance someone cautiously roamed away from his position. Someone small, but still a threat. He kept his breathing even and calm. Just a little bit further if Nigel's instructions were correct. Of course the person's office he sought was most likely the man responsible for all of this. How convenient to have  
a lair on the same floor of those he studied.

Studied.

Dr. Rhodes didn't think of these inmates as people... as patients. Just another set of numbers on a file folder. A set of mood disorder fill-in-the-blanks that he tested logical theories and mind-altering drugs on to see what worked. Except wasn't that the problem with mental illness? Nothing neat or ordered about them. Psychology was a science about one of the most unpredictable things. Human behavior.

Nick peered down the next hall as he focused at the task at hand. He needed to get this done so he could get back to Grissom. Then maybe track down Franco or any of the other missing staff that 'had' to be around here. He counted silently to ten before taking off, noting the lone prisoner off the radar so to speak.

Red Flash. Blackness.

Red Flash. Blackness.

He exhaled, hand touched the wall for guidance, when his foot connected with something on the floor and Nick tumbled right over it.

Instinctively he scrambled away, breathing harshly, heart galloping away inside his chest. Nick waited. Red splash of color, the form of a body, then darkness. He reached out with his hand, felt warm flesh through cotton. Another five seconds then a glimpse of pale skin, blond hair, closed eyes.

Nick looked around in between intervals of sight. Alone in the hall for now. He scrambled closer; fingers reached for a pulse and stopped when he felt none. Head bowed, Nick cursed silently, while the investigator in him looked for the COD. The next sixty seconds spliced up by 12 rapid-fire glimpses. Scrub top, plain white slacks. ID badge missing, just a plain a silver chain around the neck. Some poor staff member caught during the rampage. No blood, no visible wounds.

He wanted to stay to protect the body, find out who this poor soul had been. Nick tried his best to memorize the young male, probably in his thirties. Nick wiped at his face, grimacing slightly as he touched his bruised jaw. Time was ticking away. How many more would die as the siege went on? Nick stood up reluctantly. He searched the darkness and moved onward, a few hundred feet more.

His hand still brushed along brick, eyes darting around the empty space in front until he found the wooden door. Cautiously, he approached the office like he would any potential scene. Nick tested the doorknob, part of him expecting it not to work, when it twisted, tumblers clicking. The door moved forward as he controlled how far. One inch, then two. He peered just inside to find another blackened room.

Red flash right on time. Quick check behind the door, another careful glance to his left. Then his right. Nick turned his head, no one behind him, no more bad horror movie moments. He closed the door, back against it for protection. Solid wall of black, his eyes adjusted as he stood there, waiting to focus on anything.

Outlines of objects; desk, chair, couch to his right. Tiny green light from the object of his quest. The phone sat next to the computer, the screen still had the faintest glow of illumination. Nick took out his cell phone, flipped it open to allow the screen saver there to lead him the way. One foot in front of him, then the other. He froze when he heard it.

Breathing. Erratic, heavy, and not his own.

Nick meticulously shifted his hand, the glow of his cell phone only giving him the illusion of light. Tiny snippets of surroundings. With his ears he searched out the source of the heavy in and exhales of a fearful person. Towards the couch, in the space between the sleek leather and wall. Carefully, Nick switched hands with the phone, and snagged the name plaque from the oak desk.

With his weapon in hand, he approached the source of the noise, prepared for anything. Nick got closer one step at a time; as he circled one side of the sofa, the faint luminescence of his phone helped reveal a hulking body hidden behind it. The slightest aura of mixed light sources reflected in the irises of a set of eyes, followed by a garbled shout.

Nick knew the lunge was coming before it happened. The criminalist struck the man right along the right side of his face with a sickening crack. The attacker cried out in pain as he stumbled away slightly. Nick held the nameplate firm, arm loose for another swing if need be. He directed his cell, his pathetic light source, around as the suspect backed away, hand clamped over his face.

"I told you about my animal," the man growled.

Nick followed the inmate step by step, the voice and use of words familiar. The light of red flashes confirmed that he just discovered where Robert Patterson had been lurking.

"Back away and put your hands on your head," Nick instructed in a soft, but firm voice. No need to alert more people.

Patterson laughed at him as he rubbed his bashed face. "You don't want to play with him? With my beast?" the man growled.

Nick shook his head. "Nah, man, not really. Why don't you just calm down."

"I was denied. My animal fed and I was denied. But not again," he taunted, as he leered at the CSI.

Nick braced for it as Patterson came at him again with reckless and uncontrolled fury. Nick dropped his cell phone, and stopped the wild charge. The primitive weapon still in his hands, he grabbed one fistful of jumpsuit and slammed the inmate onto the desk. Patterson fought and wrestled with him as Nick shoved the man's body along the expanse of wood and slid the inmate across the top. The prisoner was tossed to the floor, scattering the contents of the surface of the desk with him.

Nick pinned Patterson's left arm with his knee and used the weight of the nameplate along the man's sternum, shoving hard. "Stop fighting me," he tried to order the other man.

Patterson squirmed and growled, his body twisting on the floor. Nick pressed harder and used his body weight to subdue the prisoner. It was like wrangling a bull; the man bucked and kicked at him. Before long he wrestled away from the CSI and took a wild swing at him. Nick dodged the fist and moved out of the way. With precious time slipping away, his training kicked in and Nick put the man into a familiar chokehold.

His arm screamed at him as it wrapped under the man's windpipe, Nick's left hand holding his elbow in place. White-hot fire ripped through his arm, and his eyes watered, but he still squeezed harder. Patterson tried to shake the Texan away, but quickly fell to his knees, his struggles weaker. The prisoner gasped and sputtered. A lazy arm uselessly swatted at the criminalist, but Nick held on.

Nick felt his muscles shake; sweat soaked his back, face and neck. Patterson slackened from the lack of oxygen. Finally the man succumbed and Nick let go as Patterson slowly slumped to the floor. Nick took a moment to breathe, to allow his pulse to slow down. He gasped. He had unknowingly held his own breath, the veins along the side of his head still beating wildly.

After gaining his composure he checked the man's pulse and felt a slow but steady rhythm. Nick stood on shaky legs, droplets of sweat tickled down his forehead. He sucked in another raspy breath, as his arm blossomed with fresh pain. Nick felt the fresh stickiness of blood soak his bandage.

He'd torn even more stitches. He shook his head, knowing it could wait. Nick searched the ground for his cell phone, and looked around at the carnage on the floor. Objects had been strewn all over the place. Nick sighed at the task at hand. He cradled his arm once again and carefully stepped around the debris. Squinting in the darkness he stood there waiting for the familiar burst of red illumination to help acclimate his surroundings.

Red flash. Darkness.

There it was further along the floor. The damn phone. Nick took a step, then felt a beefy hand squeeze his shoulder just as a strange sharpness was driven into his lower back.

Red flash.

Then a howl of pain when the strange pinch exploded into a terrible rip. His scream past his lips, Nick was left gasping.

Some foreign object was sheathed into his right flank. For the worst five seconds of his life, he felt the strong hand keep him still, the object digging deeper into the small of his back.

Then it slipped out and both his legs crumpled, unable to stand any longer. Nick dropped like a dead weight to the floor, his hand grasping at his back, searching for the source of such intense affliction. Sprawled out like some rag dummy, legs failing weakly, his right hand came back with just the smallest amount of blood. Surely this kind of agony meant he should be covered in it.

Nick didn't have the luxury to analyze his situation. A set of hands pulled him by the collar of his shirt and he was thrown back along the empty desk. Nick felt his body slide, gravity beckoning him to the ground. An arm pressed against his chest, the meaty limb pinned him atop the desk. His legs wouldn't support him as they weakly trembled.

Nick quaked as the face of Ivan loomed over him. The man held something metal right in front of his face. The CSI sort of gazed at it, lost in a sea of pain.

Red Flash. Darkness.

In between intervals of light and black he scarcely made out Dr. Rhodes' precious gold pen. It was covered with his blood. Ivan's scraggly face and mane of unkempt hair hung over him; some of the wisps tickled his face. Dark eyes peered at him as he jabbed the pen under his chin.

"Where is he?" the Russian whispered, eyes darting wildly side to side.

Nick sucked in a breath, unable to keep from crying out. His entire back was nothing but bright pain, clear from his spine to his stomach. His rapid inhalation just intensified the agony. All he wanted to do was slip into nothingness.

Ivan drove the pen under his jaw. "Where is the Blue Eyed Devil?"

Tears welled up in his eyes; gut punched and kicked in the back didn't begin to describe his body. He didn't speak, just tried to focus on breathing. He stared at his tormentor, at the cold lifeless eyes. The left side of the man's cheek spasmed and Nick knew he was under the influence of whatever drug had been slipped to him earlier.

Ivan secured his brutish left arm against the top of his chest and dragged away the expensive pen. He twirled the instrument between his fingers. "Hurts doesn't it?"

Nick groaned, his body trembled. "Please," he begged, not caring how it sounded.

"Where is he?" Ivan asked again.

_How could a man under the influence of something be this controlling?_ Nick wondered, as he tried to beat back the pain. He was failing miserably.

The giant smiled at him. "Maybe your screams will lead him here."

Nick didn't know how to respond; he just shook his head back and forth.

"When an animal is trapped, it tries to protect itself, _da_?"

The Russian took the writing instrument and guided it down Nick's heaving chest. "It tries to protect its vulnerable belly." He let the metal pen drift down towards Nick's abdomen.

Nick tried to wiggle away, but any movement just made him cry out, the pain excruciating.

Ivan pressed the sharp end of the makeshift dagger right below Nick's navel. "So very painful. How many holes can you take?" He smiled and leaned in, his sour breath over his face. "I would like to know how long you could endure," he taunted.

Nick managed to claw at the brute weakly with his fingers.

"The screams. They are so loud." Ivan stood to his full height. "I don't mind. I love to hear it. Like Tchaikovsky."

Nick groaned, panting back agony. "Go to Hell," he spat out.

The Russian's grin widened. "I am."

Nick closed his eyes and waited for the next stab, but was rewarded with a light beneath his closed lids. He flicked them open to see the room cast in a high beam of light.

"Stop it!"

It was Grissom's voice and Nick didn't know to be relieved or even more terrified. Ivan turned around, the pen never wavering. "He's here," he whispered.

Grissom hobbled inside, Nigel scurried to the corner. The Russian darted his eyes at the two new visitors.

"Let him go." Grissom commanded.

Ivan's stared at the supervisor, his eyes drifting towards the injured young man. "I should set him free. Cut the bonds."

Grissom stepped closer, eyes wavering briefly at Nick, but focused on the hulking prisoner. "Nick isn't tethered to me. He's been on his own a long time."

"He should be rid of you. Of your evil influence," Ivan said as he moved his deadly weapon back over to Nick's throat. "One hole and it would be quick."

Grissom licked his lips and moved the beam of light over Ivan's face. "Nick hasn't needed to be under my influence for a long time."

The Russian rested the end against the beating pulse along the young criminalist's neck.

"What do you want?" Grissom asked, a slight falter to his usually stoic voice.

"To finish the game. To deal with the Devil."

Nick fought to follow the conversation as much as he could, but it was so hard to battle anything with his back on fire. He saw his supervisor look at him, and gave the young man a nod to hold on.

"Then let's play the game, but you can't harm him," Grissom instructed.

"G-grissom," Nick stuttered not exactly liking what he heard.

Ivan was captivated as he nodded. The Russian removed the pen and let it drop to the ground. He took his right hand and patted the side of Nick's face. "Your master and I will play now." The Russian grabbed part of Nick's hair and slammed the back of his head back hard against the desk.

"Stop it!" Grissom bellowed.

Ivan stood back while Nick slumped to the ground unconscious. The man wasted no time and grabbed Grissom by his shirt collar and hauled him around. The older man was barely able to keep his feet under him. He jerked the supervisor over to where Crane remained transfixed by the drama.

Ivan yanked the smaller man by his jumpsuit with his other hand. "I said nothing about you, Broom Man."

Crane let himself get manhandled but still managed to smile. "I'm here for Nick. I don't care about your games."

Ivan slammed the janitor along the wall a few times, enjoying himself. "Is he yours?"

Nigel adjusted his glasses. "He's my friend. He came here to see me."

Grissom tried to pry the meaty hand away from his collar without success. He stared at Crane, warning him back. The Russian knocked Crane's glasses off and let him go. When Nigel bent down to pick them up Ivan kicked him in the knee, laughing as the man tumbled to the ground.

"Fine, little man. The Devil's puppet is yours. Do with him as you wish." Ivan grinned wickedly.

Crane returned the smile, rubbing at his knee.

Grissom struggled as he was dragged out; his feet scrambled for purchase, no match for the giant. "You can't leave Nick with him. Wait!" Grissom grappled with the strong grip, as he was forced out of the room.

The last thing Grissom saw was Nigel Crane waving at him as he held onto the flashlight, leaving behind the criminalist he had failed to protect.

* * *

A/N at my bio 


	13. Chapter 13

Sara flipped through a mound of files, eyes scanning Dr. Kincaid's almost unintelligible notes and compared them to the first draft of the joint proposal by the deceased and Dr. Stanfield. This particular cardboard box had just been delivered to the Lab, accidentally separated en route from an earlier delivery. Nick had not combed through it and while she waited impatiently for more tox results it was proving fascinating reading. She was  
so engrossed with the contents that she never heard the noise from someone clearing their throat.

Sara looked up to see Catherine eying her with a Cheshire Cat- like grin as she leaned on the doorjamb. "This case got all three of you guys in the wackiest of hours. In early again?" she asked as she made her way in, the glint in her eye more than curious.

Sara smiled despite herself. "Something like that." She rubbed at her eyes. "Split shifts because of the hours we're allowed to interview suspects, not that I've been able to do the latter." She uttered the last part under he breath.

Catherine's Alice in Wonderland smile slipped and her quirk of the head replaced it. "Been banned from the scene?"

Sara narrowed her eyes; Catherine wasn't that dense. "I never asked for special treatment."

Catherine gave her a cocky grin. "No one ever accused you of that." She got a faraway look in her eyes.

Sara waited for something more, then pushed when all there was silence. "What?"

Catherine sighed. "I don't know, maybe...maybe Grissom is trying to make up for other things." With the wrong person she thought, but didn't say so out loud, since it wasn't Sara's fault.

Sara sort of knew what she was talking about and dropped her head, embarrassed to be on the receiving end of such preferential treatment. "He has a bad habit of deference."

The older woman snorted. "You've been reading too much psychology. I think we'd all be in big trouble if someone came in to analyze all of us." She held up her hands. "What is normal?"

Sara shifted in her seat. "Don't ask. I'll tell you one thing, it wasn't this research study."

"I've been following the case somewhat," Catherine said reverting back to business.

"Yeah? What about your Ping Pong murder? Did you threaten to paddle the suspect?"

Catherine rolled her eyes. "Nah, he didn't have enough balls."

They both laughed and the other woman looked down at Sara's notes. "Your study have something probative?'

"Yeah, it sure does." Sara didn't know how much her boss knew, but she still felt like sharing. "Our victim was part of a research study that was a sham."

"Sounds like motive. Not that I'm privy to all the details, but you can decipher one of those reports? If I recall it's like reading stereo instructions," Catherine remarked dryly.

Sara pointed to a stool, which the other woman accepted. "When I have one of the physician's notes in his own journal and a draft of the study, it's easier to figure out all the relevant stuff. Suffice it to say, Dr. Stanfield was faking his study." She paused to see if the other CSI caught on. "He listed patients that were part of a clinical trial for an  
anti-psychotic drug that should have never been part of any study."

"How do you know that?"

Sara hesitated just a little, knowing she had only partial information. "I can't cross reference all the patients used, but I did notice one thing. The trial and subsequent results from the study include all four of our murder suspects. Two of which should have never even met the criteria."

Catherine seemed intrigued enough for her to continue, since her other two partners had not answered their cell phones in the last hour. "Not all anti-psychotic medication is used on the same dysfunctions or mental illnesses. There are different classes: Pharmacodynamics, Pharmacokinetics, and Phenothiazines. All used for different sets of mood disorders, all with their own corresponding side effects"

"O-kay," Catherine said, not quite following.

Sara knew she was losing the other criminalist, since Catherine had no basis to follow. "Basically, it comes down to the fact that a sex offender and a patient suffering from PTSD would not benefit from the same kind of drug used to treat sociopathic behavior or delusional tendencies. Comes down to different chemicals."

"And you're saying this study claims to have used these patients as test subjects with positive results?"

Sara smiled. "Exactly. The study was based off of bogus information. It was like this guy used random names to fill in the needed data when his results were not totally verified. Dr. Kincaid was following up on his co-researcher's studies and I think might be the reason why he tried to pull some of Stanfield's patients from his care."

Catherine shifted through papers. "I think major medical journals would have their ways to verify these types of studies with their reputations on the line, not to mention multi- million dollar pharmaceutical contracts," she remarked skeptically.

Sara nodded. "I agree. Still trying to wade through it. I'm not a research expert."

"And we're all glad to hear that."

Both criminalists turned to see David Hodges saunter into the room, a file gripped tightly between his fingers, his usual aura of smugness ever so exaggerated.

"If you're here, that means you must have hit pay dirt," Sara said, challenging his presence.

The tech cocked his head and rested his hand on the desk in triumph. "You and Nick tried to bury the entire lab with a tidal wave of endless tests. Glad you finally decided to narrow your focus just a wee bit. I know you think we have nothing to do but, --"

"The results, Hodges," Sara demanded somewhat testily.

David mocked being wounded, but handed her the folder. "Bingo on Levodopa."

Sara studied the readout, the name not ringing a bell. The haughty tech sensed this and was happy to oblige her with the needed answers.

"It's a drug used to treat Parkinson's disease. Typical dosage ranges from 100 Mg to 500 Mg." David waited till he had the desired attention of his audience, and gave them a crooked smile before an exaggerated intake of breath. "Fast acting. Onset of effects within 10 to 15 minutes. "

Sara glared at him. "Do you know what this would do to someone who wasn't under a prescription?"

David laughed. "I wouldn't be here unprepared."

"Then spill it," Sara demanded, annoyed.

"Is it chilly in here?" he asked, but trained his eyes elsewhere, his usual bored expression firmly in place. "Hard stuff to test for unless you specifically look for it. From the urine results, again not something we typical break down so much, there was a large level. About 1000 Mg to be precise."

Sara stared at her copy. "And that means..."

"It means, class, that in some people it can cause euphoria, hallucinations, nervousness, anxiety. Not to mention severe depression, dementia, aggressiveness, and paranoia." David cleared his throat. "That was behavioral. It can also manifest itself after three to five hours with muscle twitching, involuntary movements, and psychiatric disturbances."

Sara and Catherine shared a look. The younger criminalist fiddled with the report. "Hell of a thing to give to patients who are already suffering from severe forms of paranoia and violent behavioral disorders."

Catherine laughed. "Yeah. Talk about mixing up explosives. A recipe for bad mojo." She shook her head, "Not exactly a reliable murder weapon."

Sara shook her head. "Maybe it was used to get the deed done or cover up the tracks of something else. This means that only certain people could have access to such a drug and be able to administer that kind of dose without anyone knowing it," she said, suddenly a bit alarmed.

"The inmates had 'encouragement' the other night," Catherine muttered, the sinking feeling taking hold of her stomach.

Hodges snorted. "Um, if you're talking about mixing up Levodopa and the mentally disturbed, think more along the lines of unbalanced dynamite. Anything from space cadets to raving lunatics."

The women glared at him, not wanting to add those nightmarish images to their heads.

Before one of them dismissed the man, Jim Brass huffed inside the room, out of breath and very irritated.

"What is it?" Sara and Catherine asked in unison.

Brass wiped at his forehead, getting rid of the perspiration there. He sighed heavily. "There's some bad shit going down at that Nuthouse Institute."

* * *

It was raining; the water droplets pelted his face, and it felt refreshing. Nick didn't understand why he was outside, as the water got harder, rivulets streaming down the side of his cheeks. He reached up to pull down the brim of his baseball hat, when the movement sort of zapped him back into reality.

Nick's eyes popped open as he gasped sharply for breath. His back blossomed with acute pain; his right flank a tenderized mess. He curled up onto his side; his left hand weakly sought out the power tool that still drilled into his flesh. Half-consciously he swatted at the droplets of water on his face, confused about the source of the water. It was totally  
overwhelming, but as his mind adjusted to the fury of stimuli, Nick took in his surroundings as the last few minutes rewound in his head.

He was on the floor nearly in a fetal position as water dripped into his hair. Nick batted at the air and came into contact with a plastic bottle.

_Huh?_ "What the Hell?" he croaked.

His pupils adjusted to the low level of light, but he could barely concentrate on anything other than the laborious effort of breathing. Nick saw Nigel Crane standing over him, moments after spilling the last remains of water from the now empty container. The janitor squatted next to him after chucking the useless plastic away and fiddled with the flashlight in his hands.

"About time you woke up. You know there was only one thing of water in the mini-fridge and I got tired of calling your name," Nigel said matter-of-factly.

Nick didn't hear the ramble as he gasped for air and held his breath afterwards to help ease the pain the movement of his diaphragm caused. Then he blew it out and sucked in another lungful of air just as quickly, trying to control the need to breathe at all. Simply an inconceivable thing to do. Nick balled his right hand into a fist and pounded it on the ground as hard as he could, until his fingers throbbed as unmercifully as his back. He tried to drag his body away from the origin of the anguish with little result.

It didn't help. Movement made him see stars, the strange sounds from deep within his throat pitiful and pathetic to his ears. He buried his head between his arms and gnawed on his fist to combat how he felt.

"Nick, we can't stay here. It's not safe."

Nigel's monotone voice drifted around his ears; it was soft, and so very distant. Maybe if he kept very still, motionless like a rock, it would help.

"Nick, come on people will find us here."

Nigel's voice had more of an edge to it and Nick tried to forget the man was even there.

"Get up, Nick."

Nick hated it, but sought out the blackness of unconsciousness from a few minutes ago. Yet a nag at the edge of his brain told him something else was wrong. He felt so confused and the janitor's voice just grated on his nerves.

He heard Nigel's deep sigh and as he muttered unhappily. Nick peeled open his eyes as the geeky man shined the light over his form, his annoyance quite obvious.

"You should really stop complaining so much. Did he rough you up a bit to get your precious boss' attention?'

Nick noticed the proximity of Crane as the man loomed closer; the man's fingers touched the side of his shirt as he attempted to inspect for injury. "Don't fucking touch me!"

Nick batted Nigel's hand away from his body and fixed the man with a piercing gaze. "Back away," he gasped out.

The janitor adjusted his glasses, his hands away from the CSI, but didn't seem very effected by the burst of anger. Nigel mumbled under his breath and used the beam of light and shined it over Nick's body as it trembled with every irregular breath.

"Isn't it ironic that you got shanked in the back, Nick? Kind of like karma knocking you down a peg or two." Nigel looked around and sifted through the junk all over the floor and latched onto the object he sought. He grasped the gold pen, mostly stained a dark red, and inspected it with curiosity.

"It's just a pen, Nick. You've handled worse. So why don't you stop complaining so much and get moving?"

Nick felt the familiar heat creep along his cheeks, whether from the man's callous remarks or the effects of being stabbed, he wasn't sure. The anger though was a good focus point, a target to draw his attention from what felt like a gaping hole that grew larger with every motion. Then it sort of all hit him at once. Ivan's steel eyes, the fear of being tortured, and then Grissom's arrival. The man had handed himself over to that monster.

Nick was surprised by what he felt. It wasn't the pain of sadness, nor regret, though the familiar buddy of guilt nagged him. No, it was anger. For getting caught, for being too blinded by his foolhardy emotions, but most of all, for having to rely on his supervisor for help once again.

It made him feel so out of control, so unable to step out of the looming shadow of Grissom's influence. That his choices were never trusted, that he was never seen as capable. The fallout of his decisions would have consequences and repercussions that someone would have to come around and clean up.

After all these years, every single nightmare case, every instance of survival that would have ended the career of most others. He felt crushed by so much uncertainty from others.

Trust. It was a word seldom used in the same sentence with his supervisor these days. Nick felt the dam finally break free, the splinters finally full-fledged cracks, bursting forth in time to the rip in his back. Nick grabbed a hold of the desk and hoisted his damaged body to his feet. Nigel was right; it was simple small hole, but damn was the pain exponentially higher than he ever thought possible.

He didn't suppress the howl of pain, mixed with an even more sudden gasping for air. He leaned over the spread of wood, legs ready to collapse again. The room sort of spun, the ten rounds that he went with Mike Tyson sort of a blurry memory. Nick didn't stand, but sort of hunched over, as he arched his back somewhat. It took every scrap of will power, but Nick lurched forward, unable to suppress the guttural noise of pain that every jarring movement did to him.

It felt like his legs were made of rubber, ready to just crumple beneath each step. Instinctively he wanted to place his hand over the wound, but didn't want to experience another jolt of pain. Sweat rolled down his clammy face.

"We need to find Grissom."

There was a flash of something across Nigel's unreadable face. The inmate didn't see that coming. He smiled thinly. "Can you even walk, Nick?"

Nick staggered to the door, every vibration of foot to floor, a white-hot stake in his spine. He wrapped his left hand around his stomach; his guts felt like they had been eviscerated. He clumsily fumbled with the doorknob and nearly fell out the exit, when the door swung open and he was unable to keep from using the door as a crutch.

He allowed a slight sob; his feet began to slide out from under him. Nick felt his right arm move without commanding it to as it was slumped over the shoulders of the smaller man. Nick fought as he tried to push Nigel out of his personal space. The janitor yanked Nick's arm harder around him, tearing at more stitches.

Nick yelped as he was pulled away from the door, his weight forced to accept the help of the other man. He felt the warm trickle of blood over his right arm; funny his back didn't feel coated as much as it should. Nick tried to concentrate on his breathing; the panting could not be helped. It just hurt less when he held his breath, so that's what he did as much as possible.

Crane adjusted for his weight and awkward position, the tendency to hunch over to alleviate some of the pain made the trek through the darkness clumsy. Nick didn't allow Crane to wrap an arm around his waist to help anchor them both. He felt vile enough as it was, but mostly any pressure near the hole in his back was too excruciatingly bad to allow.

Nick was unable to keep down the amount of pain he was in; each step just another jab along his spine and twist along the muscles of his abdomen.

"Try to be quiet," Nigel hissed.

Despite the anger-laced tone, Nigel Crane looked pleased. His face almost beamed at the very notion of helping Nick move around, and despite the effort of hauling them both, it seemed to challenge him more. The criminalist noticed the tiny glances sent his way, even smaller grins of happiness. Deep down, in the sickness of Nigel's mind this was an overt joy of being useful.

"We... need...to find Grissom," Nick insisted.

Nigel rolled his eyes as he steered them, the two men moving like wayward drunkards. Nick knew he was being ignored and slowed his movements. The inmate pretended or ignored Nick's efforts. "Nigel."

Crane grunted as he struggled with the ornery Texan. Nick weighed more than the smaller man and was making things rather difficult.

"Why?"

Nick nearly toppled over when Crane froze in mid-step. The criminalist shook his head. "Because Ivan has him."

The inmate snorted. "So?"

Nick didn't feel like arguing with the two year old, but he needed Crane and that scared the shit out of him. "Because he doesn't deserve to be hurt."

Nigel squirmed under his burden. "Many people don't deserve what happens to them. Of all people you should know that."

The abrupt movement brought the hounds of Hell over him and Nick used the pain to grab a hunk of pale green jumpsuit and lock eyes with the man. "He's my supervisor and he offered himself up to that animal for me," he seethed.

"He's a co-worker, a boss. He did his job. I'm your friend. I saved you in that hallway and I'm going to take you back to our safe spot. I'm helping you, Nick. Why don't you understand that."? Nigel stared at the CSI questioningly.

"He's my friend, Nigel. It...it's what friends do for each other," Nick tried to convey, even though he knew he was treading a thin line, waiting for his choice of words to backfire on him.

Clearly it had some effect. Nigel shook his head, rambling under his breath. Nick tried to keep him focused. "Just help me find where Ivan took him. Once we get him, then all of us can go to the safe spot." Nick tried to reason as best he could. He grunted as the smaller man adjusted his weight again.

Nigel looked at the hand still intertwined with the fabric of his jumpsuit. Nick let go of his grip; his brown eyes still stared intently. Crane looked around into the darkness, adjusting the flashlight in his other hand.

The red light reflected off his glasses every five seconds.

"What is a friend, Nick? An ally in war? What, you catch bad guys together? Do you turn to him when you need a shoulder to cry on?" Nigel laughed. "Didn't think so.

Is he an acquaintance? You know, someone who you talk with about mutual likes and regard with affection?" Nigel chuckled. "I doubt you guys watch football and drink beer."

Nigel faced him in a very similar stand off from several years ago. Both men tense except for the absence of a gun between them. "Friends share trust, honesty, and respect." The inmate cocked his head to one side. "Didn't get that impression about his feelings for you. When you think of Mr. Grissom, what kind of friend do you imagine, if any at all?"

Nick swallowed and directed all his anger into a cold steely voice. "I'm telling you right now, Nigel. You're going to help him."

The man peered through his windows of warped reality; his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. "Why, Nick?"

The criminalist felt his body slip from the fragile hold, his mind drifting back to the few seconds in which he tore the muzzle away from Nigel's skull and sent the man to prison instead of the grave. He recalled the tiny triumphant smile as Crane had been handcuffed even in the chaos. Nigel had stuck to the one thing he was good at, the one thing he sought more than anything. Nick blew out another painful breath.

"Because you're in control here, Nigel. It's your game. Your rules." Nick didn't know how much longer he could remain upright. His right leg trembled constantly. The hole the size of a dime felt more like the largest gaping wound filled with liquid fire.

He was falling, unable to remain upright, failing again at something so fundamental.

Like acid and salt he screamed the driest cry as an arm grabbed him by his waist and halted his fall to the floor. Sandpaper along an open sore, the arm kept him snug, on his feet, and then pulled him along the empty hallway. Nick didn't know how his feet could keep up; a stumble there, a falter elsewhere. The fucking red lights seemed to stab his eyes with the same amount of ferocity as the pen that still felt embedded in his right flank.

Nick panted now, unable to put up a fight, too suddenly exhausted to struggle. Nigel grunted more, grumbled even louder. The small man tripped over his feet, sometimes falling and sending them both to the tiles. Yet, by some miracle, the janitor found his bearings and hauled around the dead weight around his shoulders. Their journey slowed to a crawl.

After what seemed like hours Nigel stopped in front of a door. He leaned Nick against the wall somewhat as he wrangled with a set of keys. The CSI had enough sense still left to know they were not back at the showers and there was no hint of Grissom or Ivan. He balanced by holding onto Nigel's back, knowing the inmate was relishing every freaking second of dependence.

Nigel nearly dragged him into what had to be the most crammed storage closet he'd seen in his life. The tiny space was packed full of supplies, boxes and two metal shelves lined the walls. The two men could barely turn full circle in the suffocating space. Nigel busied himself shoving mop buckets and random supplies around.

Nick blinked several times; the place was pitch black. Before he could get enough moisture in his mouth to form words, the inmate turned on his flashlight.

Bad idea. It only served to shrink the size of the shoebox. Nick didn't think his heart could pound any harder. Nigel slowly lowered Nick to the slippery ground; the smell of bleach and mold was overwhelming. Nick leaned on his left side, still trying to understand what was going on.

He managed a struggled, "What?"

Nigel breathed heavily and seemed a bit out of sorts. He wiped at the sweat on his brow and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You're too heavy."

Nick was caught holding another breath, but sucked in more oxygen despite the effects. "I don't..."

"I can't carry you around the whole wing," Nigel huffed. Then smirked. "I used to be a technician, great with electronics, satellites, cables, computers. Now. Well, now welcome to my world of slopping up messes, waxing floors, scrubbing toilets. My...my _reward_'." Nigel shined the beam of light at all the bottles of cleaners, dirty rags, towels and paper supplies.

"I'm going to go get your stupid boss. To prove to you once and for all what real friendship is all about. You'll see the stark contrast right in front of your face." Nigel's voice was pompous and self-righteous.

It wasn't exactly part of his plan, even though he didn't have one totally formulated. It didn't even occur to him that Crane would try to find Grissom. Nick struggled to stand on his own and resulted in collapsing on the mucky floor, his back a raging mess and his feet unable to stand up again.

Nigel patted him on his shoulder. "You'll be safe here. Kind of cozy don't you think?"

Nick swore he saw a flash of glee behind the plastic lenses and it was then that he realized Crane planned on locking him inside. He succeeded in crawling along the floor, but Nigel was already on his feet, leaving him behind.

"Sorry, I need to keep the flashlight."

"No!" Nick yelled, as he pushed up on all fours in an effort to stand.

"You want me to help your supervisor, right? I'm just trying to be a good friend. Don't scream too loud or someone who doesn't care about you might find you."

Nick was rewarded with a door slammed closed in front of his face, the room a sudden vacuum of light. He was consumed by total darkness; his hands clawed at the wood that prevented his escape.

"No!" he bellowed, his voice cracking and lost in the harshness of his throat.

Nick grabbed the doorknob, arms straining with the effort to hold his upper torso up, barely up off his knees. He jerked at the metal; the door didn't budge and so gravity pulled him back to the cold, harsh floor. Nick lay on his belly, not enough energy to move again. His body trembled; harsh ragged breaths tore at injury.

Nick closed his eyes, blocking out yet another encompassing tomb. He tried to ignore the feeling that the walls were going to crush him, and that his air was too thin.

Breathe in and out just like before. Except this time, every intake of air was just another torture. The only person who knew where he was was another mad man. Nick curled up onto his side, and tried not to think about who roamed the halls around him and that the only hope for him and his supervisor rested on the shoulders of one Nigel Crane.

* * *

A/N at my bio.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Kristen is unfortunately without an internet connection until Monday. She asked I post this so as not to make anyone wait. Replies to your reviews to this and the previous chapter will come as soon as possible. (everybetty)

He felt so tired, the heaviness of his head a weight that caused his neck to cramp up. He wanted to shift to his side, sink the side of his face into the soft down of an over-sized pillow, but the muscles along his shoulders were too stiff to allow for any relaxation. That's when he realized that he wasn't snug along a firm mattress, or even laying down. His body ached, it hurt a bit to breathe, sort of an effort to do so. His knee was killing  
him; obviously it wasn't horizontal.

The main thing that caused his head to jerk up in alarm was the numbness to his arms. His back twisted up in knots, only adding to his impending migraine. He sucked in a breath, all of his senses zapping back at once.

Grissom suppressed an urge to groan and settled for peeling back waxy, glued eyelids. The room sort of swam into view; all he saw was the now familiar blackness of nothing. Like someone stole the stars from the night, a lone localized light source several feet to his right. The restricted movement coupled with the prickly sense of his arms merged into one giant sensation. His brain's battery sort of surged from milliamps to volts, and he pulled his head all the way up.

Grissom's eyes focused and looked down at his body. He blinked several times, the light in the room unchanged, his aches still prominent. The expected view of his button up shirt, replaced by the off color beige of a straitjacket. His chair squeaked along the tile with his jarred movement.

Panic...not exactly, but definitely surprise. Oh, yes. Grissom felt an adrenaline rush so unexpected that the shock was alien to him. Pulse rate and blood pressure though the roof no doubt, but with some effort, with eighty seconds, he found the Zen calm that so many others expected out of him at every moment of the day. It always took some effort and even now, a brutal battle, but once he felt his breathing even out he could rely on his  
mind to study the situation.

Serene and peaceful images of nature and the microcosm of the insect world soothed him when it was needed, followed by complex mathematical equations as he recalled the notes to Beethoven's Seventh.

Reflexes were forgiven when it came to these kinds of moments. He tried to shift arms that were forced under one another. He visualized his limbs inside long sleeves that were strapped behind his back, imprisoning them. His restraints were wrapped tightly, another sort of restriction to his diaphragm. He sat in a plastic orange chair, probably from one of the offices. The supervisor looked up, his ears trained on the odd noise from out of sight.

Clipping sounds? No. He leaned further, not too far or he'd fall out, and that would be very bad. Small wonder he had not been tied down to the chair as well.

Definitely some sort of tearing...fabric maybe. Sheets? Grissom heard the rips, so soft, so subtle, the sounds drifted from the light source. Obviously Ivan was around. He still couldn't recall how he had ended up like this. Probably got knocked along the thick side of his skull at some point.

Wait.

Grissom shook his head. He was back in the showers.

Did everyone come here to hide out?

Maybe Nick had been right not to want to stick around. That they would have all been sitting ducks. The name of his colleague instantly brought out images of the younger man isolated with a psychopath.

Grissom exhaled deeply, eyes tight against any images of the shadow-casted room. Nick was trapped with Crane, alone with his stalker. A man prone to violent fits, delusional behavior. He felt the tip of his tongue bat around the sharp ends of his teeth.

He should have taken Nick off the case with the first signs of trouble. Maybe Nick had too many brushes with unstable people, two of which used him for their own exploits. Nick would have hated the special treatment, but so what? Not like the CSI didn't resent anything he did nowadays, probably with good reason.

He gnawed at his lip as his eyes adjusted to his prison. If he kept up the pretenses, if he didn't notice any changes then eventually they would work themselves out. If he treated Nick like nothing happened, maybe the criminalist would start to believe it too. He'd seen the changes at work. The man's withdrawal, certain physical and behavioral changes.

Who was he to point them out? What if Nick coped in his own way? If all that the criminalist did was change his appearance and act a bit less emotionally, well wasn't that what he always wanted? For Nick to become more distanced, to be less connected.

Grissom sighed. Then he wouldn't be Nick at all.

Ignoring everything around him in the hope it would all work itself out had failed. He had failed. Not taken any responsibility for anything afterwards, and now he'd lost Nick, possibly the very day he took that tape and hid it from him. Or the day when Nick returned to work and they all went back to their everyday routines, because really, wasn't stability all the man needed?

It was over. Everything was resolved. Everyone was dead. No one left to haunt the man from that pit underground. If he told Nick it was over, then Nick could accept. Move on. Except it wasn't that simple. Not like pushing a button, and the moment he let Nick walk out of his office without another word was the day he made the wedge between them permanent.

The ripping sound continued, followed by running water from one of the shower stalls. Movement within shadows. If he slipped away where would he go? Blind as a bat in the Mad Hatter's lair.

Who was to say Ivan wouldn't simply track him down? Damn, he wished had dug further into the Russian's medical dossier. Might have proved a bit more useful now.

Leverage; he needed it with the savage that held all the cards. His head swam a bit; he still didn't recall how he ended up like this. Maybe the Russian grew tired of yanking him around the halls, of his orders not to leave Nick alone with Crane. What had he been thinking?

He hadn't… he'd been reacting. It wasn't everyday he felt so out of control.

The sounds of the water stopped.

He braced himself as best he could. Jutted out his chin, allowed his eyes to follow the moving silhouette.

A hulking figure approached, the beam of light bounced along with the beastly man. Grissom cocked his head as Ivan approached coolly. The Russian sort of played around with his flashlight, the shadows bouncing around the surrounding areas. He stepped in front of the supervisor and rested his hand on the older man's shoulder, resting the light along Grissom's lap.

The flashlight's beam shined along the east wall, but the overall aura was enough to see that Ivan had been busy. The prisoner leaned over him, his face marred by blue and blackish tinges of skin, broken blood vessels and ugly discoloration.

His raggedy mane was gone, tufts of uneven hair still stuck out along a badly shaved head. Nowhere to find a professional razor around here. There were multiple cuts along Ivan's scalp; bloody, oozing wounds from whatever he used to hack his hair off. He looked like some plastic doll that some rabid kid had yanked out all the strands of hair from and left some spots untouched.

Ivan's beard was gone, leaving badly mangled cheeks and chin. Blood from open sores, soapsuds still around his ears, and stubble along the left side of his chin; obviously the caveman haircut had been done without a mirror. The Russian rubbed at spotty patches of smooth skin, smearing droplets of red all over a pale face.

"I make good barber, _da_?

The werewolf had transformed to Frankenstein. Grissom didn't respond, he simply stared.

Ivan squatted until he was at eye level again, this time their positions reversed from earlier. He stared, eyes transfixed by something. Grissom's silence didn't seem to agitate the man very much. The Russian pulled out a large scalpel, running the blade almost lovingly along the edges of his mouth, tracing an outline.

"I've been saving this for a special occasion. You think the docs would count their sharp instruments. I swiped this from under their pretty noses months ago," Ivan whispered. "In the meat packing plants, the air was filled with stinking rotting flesh, blood puddles all over the floor." Ivan breathed in deeply, "The smell of death was so soothing after hours of carcasses and my machete.

I'd watch as the blood washed down the drain." The Russian held out his palms and showed Grissom his blotchy skin. "Your student's was sticky and warm, but I cleaned it away. Pity."

Grissom counted silently in his head. He hadn't gotten close enough to Nick to know if he had been injured. He looked down at his lap, really taking note of the Maglite lying there. "Where did you get the flashlight, Ivan?" Maybe if he got him talking about other things besides violent fantasies he'd buy some more time.

Laughter filled the shower stalls. "I take whatever I want. Someone had it, and I didn't stop squeezing their throat until their eyes popped out of their head. Then the light was mine."

Grissom didn't express how revolted he felt at the moment. "You killed a man for a flashlight?"

"Nyet. I wanted the light and took it. I killed him because I wanted to."

The entomologist felt the pinpricks along his hands intensify; he balled them up to keep the feeling intact. He continued his distractions. "You haven't killed in a long time. Several years, why now?"

The Russian lifted Grissom up from the chair by two of the fabric straps. Ivan stood to his full height and sort of dangled the restrained man inches from his seat. Manic eyes relished in the display. "Do you like your new suit?"

Grissom didn't feel totally lost; his feet still touched the ground as he was jerked around some more. It aggravated his bruised muscles, and his heart rate was creeping up, but now wasn't the time to worry about that. "It gives you an advantage. Do you like seeing someone else in one of these?"

Ivan slammed the CSI back into his seat, almost knocking the scientist down along with his chair. "The zip-up-jacket is just another instrument that they use." Ivan shook his grotesque head. "They thought they could change me. Control me."

"You volunteered to come here," Grissom prodded, shifting slightly in his chair.

Laugher filled the room. "Games. Love to play with all the white coats. Smell their stinking fear, but most of all, I smell their need to know what it's like."

Dark eyes gleamed, as the man wet his lips. "Secretly, everyone wants to taste death. To feel what it's like to control and play with it. Watch men change before your very eyes when they face mortality and welcome it." Ivan squeezed Grissom's shoulder. "In my freezer they begged for death. Until I granted them what they could not bring themselves to ask before I took them and slung them on my pretty hooks."

"You tortured them," Grissom corrected him.

Ivan ran the edge of his scalpel along the fabric of the straitjacket; the blade tore into the thickly woven fabric. "I made them sing the notes of Tchaikovsky. Too bad I didn't get a chance to listen to your youngling. I think his voice would have sounded more exquisite than the good doctor's. Maybe I'll go back and play with him and the gold pen some more."

"Nick isn't part of this," Grissom warned.

"The fire grows inside the Devil's eyes," Ivan said awestruck. The metal of the scalpel glinted along the beam of light that had clattered to the floor. The Russian brushed it along Grissom's beard.

"You came to me the other night. Your beastly red body, horns covered in blood, fire blazed all around. Burning all around us. You wanted to throw me in your fiery pit. I resisted you. Until you took human form, but I saw your blue eyes, and I tore your human body apart," Ivan raved, his guttural voice heavy.

Grissom strained to understand the words smothering under the now heavy-laden accent. Ivan was transfixed by the memories that he rambled on.

"To be bathed in blood again… you wanted to remind me what it was like." Ivan flicked the razor along the CSI's beard.

Grissom flinched as he felt the scalpel along his face, the edge stripping away hair and skin, tiny cuts left in its wake. Ivan's grip on his shoulder intensified as the Russian peered down at him. "I set you free, but you still came for me!" the brutish man growled.

Grissom tried to squirm away as the inmate ranted about killing Dr Kincaid. "I saw you for the first time when you woke up. You were drugged, just like you are now." It was pointless, but Grissom didn't know what to do with faced with lunacy except to go back to the safety of reason and fact.

"No! Your blue eyes still try to hunt me down," he bellowed. Ivan took the scalpel and caressed the side of the CSI's face until it rested under Grissom's left eye socket. "If I cut this out first, will you be satisfied?"

Grissom's breath froze, the point of the blade rested under his lid.

"When I'm done with you, I'll gut your youngling as well. Sever your ties to his early soul and set him free from your control."

"Nick isn't mine to control. He never was," Grissom hissed, risking damage to his face by moving muscles to talk.

Ivan's grin widened. "I do whatever I want in here. This is my Hell. If I want to send your student into the flames of death, then I will."

"No, you won't."

Ivan lowered his blade and stood up to confront the new voice. Grissom blinked, letting out a long exhale. Ivan stepped away from his prisoner and stared into the darkness.

Grissom twisted around as much as possible. Another flashlight beam bounced around as its owner approached.

The Russian's loud belly laugh echoed inside the chamber of tiles as Grissom squinted in confusion. Nigel Crane strolled into the shower stalls, stupid broomstick in one hand, and the light in the other. He stopped a few feet away from both men, his face difficult to read in the shadows. One thing was unmistakable: his tone of voice.

"You won't do anything to our guests," Nigel taunted.

Ivan didn't budge, his face betraying the affront he obviously felt. He chuckled. "It's the Broom Man. I'm not ready for your services just yet. When I need you to mop up the blood, I'll let you know."

Nigel tapped the wooden handle of his weapon to the floor. "Ivan. Ivan." Crane shook his head. "Tsk, tsk. tsk. Always the schoolyard bully. Why don't you go find a bear to wrestle or something worthy of your intelligence? Maybe ice fishing."

Grissom watched the giant of a man simmer where he stood. The supervisor strained to see if Nigel came alone, wondering where Nick could be. No way the Texan would let Crane out of his sight.

"I will snap you like twig," Ivan seethed in a throaty menace.

Nigel held his hand to his stomach as he laughed hard. After a few moments he got his hysterics under control and shoved his glasses back up on his face. "Who talks like that? What are you a washed up Neanderthal?"

Ivan's nostrils flared along with the arm that trembled with barely contained rage. Grissom saw the man's face flush, the scalpel clutched tightly between his fingers. The supervisor didn't know what deadly game Nigel was playing, but if he wanted to piss off the Russian he had met with success.

The janitor took a few more steps closer, casually, like he was out for a stroll. He didn't look at Grissom just peered upward at the larger, hulking man. "You know how many times you shoved me against walls? Slapped me around when no one was looking? Hmmm?"

Ivan's face betrayed the giddiness of those memories.

Crane wasn't done by a long shot. His pitch and voice grew with every hate-filled word and recollection. "What about the others? The people you growled at and tormented with your mangy face. Some of the other inmates that you stole food from or beat when you weren't in proper restraints. I may just be a cleaner on this floor, but the one thing I know best to do is watch and learn."

Nigel shined the flashlight right into Ivan's eyes. "People always take me for granted." The janitor looked over at the CSI. "Don't they?"

Before Grissom could respond, Crane clicked off his flashlight. The man disappeared in the blink of an eye, stunning the enraged Russian. Ivan screamed in his mother tongue, obviously cursing at the impish man. He didn't even try to grab his own flashlight as he stomped into the darkness in pursuit.

It wasn't until the beast was out of sight that Grissom's training picked up on something he had missed while mesmerized by the drama.

Breathing. Sounds of people. Steps, movement, and the odor of other bodies. Before he comprehended what was going on, he heard the unleashing of pent-up aggression. A volley of cries, and screams of attack.

Grissom stood up, lost in the blackness of an invading horde of vengeance. The mixture of fists, flesh, and of a group laying siege against a cruel tormentor. Grissom felt his feet moving him away from the sounds of the scuffle, the scent of fresh blood, of violence filled the damp air. As he stumbled away from the noise, he felt a hand on his shoulder. The CSI whirled around, ready to shove a shoulder into any inmate.

"You sure are jumpy," Nigel snorted.

"Crane," Grissom stated as his eyes darted around in search of the evidence of his ears.

"Just ignore it all. Nothing to see here. No crime to document that anyone will care about."

Grissom struggled with his straitjacket, not comfortable around the other man. "What's happening?"

Nigel shrugged his shoulders. "Justice." He cleared his throat. "Though I wouldn't stick around too much. Natives might get carried away and want someone else to unleash their frustrations on."

"Where's Nick?" Grissom demanded.

Crane's face hardened. "I put him somewhere safe. Don't you worry about it."

The supervisor wrestled with his restraints, his arms screaming for release. "Get me out of this thing, Crane."

The janitor cocked his head. "I don't think so. Maybe you should stay in one for now."

Grissom ceased his struggles. "Nigel."

The inmate closed the distance between. "I'm on a first name basis with Nick. Not you. Very rude, you know." Crane gripped one of the straps along the fabric restraints. "Come along now."

Grissom was pulled along, barely able to put any pressure on his leg, his knee now a mass of pain. He hobbled as he was yanked around.

Crane grumbled under his breath. "Knew you'd slow me down. Glad I came prepared." Once they got into the hallway, the man switched on his flashlight and a wheelchair waited them both.

Grissom stared at it, ignoring the screams in the room he just vacated.

"Hop in," Crane instructed him.

"Take me to Nick." Grissom ordered back.

Nigel sighed. "You know Nick might not appreciate how long this is taking. I'm not sure how much he likes tight spaces nowadays. Of course, maybe I'm wrong. After all you did bring him to a prison with cramped hallways and little hole-in-the wall cells."

Grissom took a seat in the wheelchair, his eyes never breaking from the other man's. "You better have not done anything to him, Crane. Or so help me," he threatened.

Nigel chuckled as he pushed the supervisor down the black halls. "I only did what I thought was best for him." He leaned over in the supervisor's ear. "Like what you've been doing, right? Looking after a good friend."


	15. Chapter 15

A/N

I'm without the internet again. I think it shall return by late today or Thursday. Thanks for all the feedback, I can read it at work, just can't use the computer here long enough to respond. Felt you guys would prefer updates to me responding, which I'll do a collective bit later.-Kristen

* * *

"Goddamn roadblocks!" Jim cursed, rubber peeling on asphalt with maneuvers from academy days as he jolted the SUV beyond safety standards.

He mumbled an apology as the female CSIs gripped the 'Oh Shit' handles as they tried to avoid the parade of press vans, patrol cars and the heavy presence of the SWAT team. Jim knew as soon as they arrived that they would be relegated to 'outside observers' though their people were involved.

Catherine rode shotgun, body tense, taking the curves as they rode in silence. Her mind worked overtime trying to memorize facts of a case she really didn't know much about. She had made the dreaded call to Warrick, whose silence was worse than his typical temper. He was meeting them when he got done with his witness. Thank goodness there wasn't someone to pass that task to, or the man would be rolling faster than the Captain's lead foot to the pedal.

Sara was strangely passive as Catherine turned to look at her in the backseat, undoubtedly running scenarios in her head, all of them of the worst possible outcome. The three of them had been working the case, with the two 'cowboys' on the front line. Catherine had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps the wrong members had been assigned to this case.

Gil Grissom needed to throw caution to the wind, even if he had no clue that he was doing it. The Graveyard Team back together except some of the members were still MIA and the rest were still too shell-shocked to deal with it properly. No time for second-guessing or for taking to task all of their collective inability to ever really talk anymore. The current crisis was the result of their dysfunctional family.

The three of them felt like benchwarmers relegated to the sidelines, a formal courtesy granted to even allow them so near the proceedings and tactical operations. Conrad Ecklie of all people had just pulled in solo, his ragged appearance an indication of how harrowing the situation had to be. For once his 'political muscle' was a Godsend as the two lowly criminalists and detective were allowed near the 'inner sanctum' of the front  
lines of an all out war.

The newly christened power broker of the lab led the parting of the Red Sea as they stood motionless but for silent looks of confusion. A major operation was on its way, the preparation for some sort of assault, and they were no closer to finding answers than they were in at the Lab.

Sara took the necessary steps forward boring in on the joint conversations between the head of the civilian nerd squad and the elite assault force. Even the normally smug and gloating assistant director was engaged in hostile negations over information. Sara bit her lip, knowing that the balding asshole was on their side for once.

Crisis always brought out the semi-human side of Conrad Ecklie. He turned to face the obvious barrage of questions.

"Look, we have been granted the privilege to be this close."

"What the Hell is going on?" Catherine demanded.

Conrad Ecklie sighed heavily. "The hospital is experiencing some sort of compromise in its security protocols."

"What the Hell does that mean?' Sara interrupted before any sort of briefing.

The older man eyed her coolly, but granted room for some frustration. "I don't know. As far as I can tell at least two levels of the facility is experiencing severe security fluctuations and loss of communications. They are assuming the worst and are prepared to enter at full force to regain any loss of control."

"What about civilians? What are the procedures set up for that type of operation?" Jim interceded before the situation could be made worse with the swirling of emotions. He gave each criminalist an expression of needed patience in a time like this.

A gruff SWAT officer whose head was engulfed mostly by a helmet and face obscured by a small microphone piece took a single moment to address the frantic group.

"We are T-minus eight minutes from entering the first level of the lobby and proceeding to the second floor of the facility. Once each floor is secured and the prisoners are detained and lockdown procedures are fully operational, then we will proceed to the next for the same objectives."

Several large groups of men, clad in body armor, shields, helmets and weapons, approached the building. It was like the frontal assault of some war, years of training all prepared to be unleashed onto a single outcome.

Containment and security of a facility with dangerous and unpredictable offenders.

"What will you guys use if resistance is encountered?" Brass asked as radios chirped and news crews were cordoned off to a safe distance.

"Out goal is the minimal loss of life," the Commander responded. "We will use intimidation, tear gas, then excessive force if needed to make sure the staff members of the building are safely secured."

"I don't think most of them will put up much resistance when a whole tactical team comes in," Catherine remarked.

"Have you handled a lot of prison riots in your life, Ma'am?" Mr. Gruff asked.

"No, and this isn't a riot, or a prison. It's a private mental ward for convicted felons," the Lead CSI countered.

The overbearing Commander motioned his hand for another officer, who began corralling the criminalists back towards a more secured location behind a van.

"We'll be entering in five minutes. We have instructed the rest of the Team about your people. They will be on the look out. Main priority is to maintain order," the Commander offered.

Conrad Ecklie stepped in front, his face of genuine understanding. "We know you guys have a tough job ahead, we just want to make sure our people are safe."

"So do I, Mr. Ecklie," the SWAT officer replied before he marched off to begin the operation.

The Assistant Director wandered over towards his employees. "Care for anyone to brief me on the case that Grissom and Stokes were working on in there?"

Sara folded her arms. "I will, but it looks like we have company."

The four turned around to see the Sheriff with the political grease ball Harris speak animatedly with each other, two doctors in white lab coats frantic on their heels. The group of bureaucrats traded ass kissing and political sound bites with each other in an attempt to reach an agreement on how to address the crisis with the media.

Even Conrad Ecklie looked perturbed at the presence of so many spin-doctors. The Sheriff waved the director over, Catherine and Sara hot on his heels.

The Sheriff nodded at Ecklie and ignored the rest of his team as he made introductions. "Conrad Ecklie, these are Dr's Rhodes and Stanfield. They are two of the staff members here and the most familiar with what might be transpiring."

Introductions were made all around and Sara had to keep quiet as she stared at the geeky Dr. Stanfield as he began to address the huddled group.

* * *

He was sick and tired of the flashing red light, darkness, and of the non-stop rambling of his escort. Grissom felt at the end of his rope, his normal air of detachment harder to keep in place. Too much of everything, all of it out of control, all like sand through his hands. He was inside a glass building suspended over a freeway, his silent screams unheard as cars plowed into each other, over and over again. Clueless drivers unable to control speeding vehicles. Every collision worse than the last one, and a chain reaction with no stopping in sight.

He balanced as best he could in the wheelchair as Crane pushed him along, the man's last words like a broken record in his head. Grissom tried to really look around, through Nick's eyes, at this would be-asylum. Cataloging the macabre atmosphere, catacomb-like walls and the way the prison seemed to close in on its occupants. Dismissing the angry swells of red, the hospital swallowed them whole.

Grissom sighed during the tedious trip back to wherever the inmate was taking him. So many things tore away his self-imposed walls. He didn't even have it in him to ask any more questions of the other man. The grim reality of his earlier advice, the cruel irony of it all left him feeling exposed---just too shocked to really react.

The supervisor supposed that Crane's rally of the 'troops' left the corridors deserted for now, having not run into any more trouble thus far. Soon his chariot slowed and the inmate parked the chair next to a door and Crane stared at him ominously as he fiddled with a small set of keys.

"Now which one was it," he fussed, letting each one jingle as he took his time looking at them.

Grissom resisted any baited outburst, studying the closed door. A damned storage closet. The bastard had locked Nick inside knowing exactly what he was doing. The inmates here were allowed access to television and newspapers. The guy probably had every article clipped and saved under his bedroll from last May.

Crane shined the light on the lock as Grissom climbed out of his seat with difficulty, still clad by the straitjacket, ready for any surprises. For all he knew Crane had planned on throwing him inside as part of some twisted game. The inmate turned the key, pulled open the door, and cast his beam of light inside the cramped room. Grissom froze for the briefest moment as he spotted Nick curled on his side as close to the entrance to the  
hallway as possible.

"Nick," the supervisor whispered as he struggled to balance in the fucking straitjacket.

Right then something sort of 'popped' inside, like a balloon. Instead of a slow whimper of escaped air, it was the steam of a steel kettle ready to explode. Grissom whirled around so unbelievably fast, that it actually startled that smug expression off of Crane's face. With agility unfathomable, Grissom stood up with a reddened face.

"Get me out of this thing right now."

If the two men could joust with their eyes, then no doubt they would. Crane's obstinate refusal to answer the demand in contest with the raging volcano of the older man, as Grissom teetered on the edge. Move too much and Crane won---move too slow, and then he played the jester to his mad court.

Nick's rapid gulps of air filled the hollows of the closet. Grissom's ligaments popped as his shoulders adjusted against the taut fabric.

"Admit it," Crane beckoned. Nostrils flared. "You don't know what it is to be a friend."

The supervisor blinked, his voice rust. "I never said that I was ever a good friend to Nick. Why don't you demonstrate how much better you are? Undo these straps."

It was obvious the little man was slightly taken aback but he recovered. His eyes drifted down to the slimy floor, the object of their discussion too lost in something else to notice them. Crane's face twitched with too many thoughts.

"Show him who the better friend is," Grissom challenged.

Haughty chest, bravado, and a satisfied grunt. Crane gestured for the older man to turn around, impatient at the slowness. The straps were loosened, the feeling in his arms and hands shot through him with the sensation of pinpricks followed by pain of awakening nerves. The discomfort was nothing but the dulled reflexes were annoying. Grissom ignored them all as he got to his knees, one numb hand resting on his CSI's shoulder.

"Go play doctor." Nigel leered.

* * *

Nick's nails were split. Unseen scratch marks along an old wooden surface, the familiar feeling of mashed cuticles a not so distant memory. The bleeding from ripped stitches a sick syrupy feeling that congealed along the hairs of his aching arm. If he arched his back at just the right angle and curled his body, then he could pretend that there wasn't the false feeling of a hole in his gut as well. He still felt the imagined skewer protrude from his stab wound.

It was okay that he was surrounded by total darkness; his eyes were not open, clenched shut like the rest of him. Time another anomaly, another dealer of death. Nick heard the distant echo of a Johnny Cash song vibrate through the cement walls.

"I'm stuck in Folsom prison," Nick sang, his voice stolen with a gasp by another flare of agony. He gave up on it after that.

_Breathe deep, breathe slow..._

Nick did the opposite, holding his air as long as possible, fists balled so tight his knuckles had to be stark white. Air. He had oxygen; he wasn't trying to breathe it so often this time around. He had gone through the taxonomy of Owls, and almost finished the family branches of Eagles. Nick felt the moisture along his eyelids and stuffed his palm between his teeth to gnaw on again.

Wasn't like he had a bullet to bite down on.

His mind struggled with the next family of birds.

Hawks.

Family _Accipitridae _-Red-Tailed Hawk-_Buteo jamaicensis_. The red-tailed hawk is readily identified by the chestnut red on the dorsal side of the tail and a broad band of dark streaking across its white belly.

No need to talk when his mind could just recall lines from textbooks. He was so preoccupied with the next subfamily that his shoulder jerked suddenly from the touch of an intrusive hand. Instinctively he twisted away, only causing a loud pant, his left foot kicked out in reaction. Soon his hand gripped the wrist of the stranger, fingers dug deep in defense.

"Nick, it's okay."

Hearing Grissom's voice he nearly melted into the ground with relief. "Get me up," he pleaded his voice raw from strain.

"Not yet, Nick." Grissom commanded softly. He snapped his fingers, as he glared at Crane. "Shine that light down here so I can get a better look."

Grissom tried to pry the younger man's fingers from his arm. "Nick, please let go, that kind of hurts."

Nick released his strangle hold, and let his head drop back towards the grimy floor, nostrils filling with muck. He allowed a strangled cry to escape, not caring about embarrassment and eyed the open doorway. "Just help me out," his raspy voice begged before struggling to move on hands and knees.

Grissom easily overpowered Nick as he gently kept him still by gripping his shoulders. He wasn't prepared for Nick's sudden lurch forward as a result. Nick fought his restraint with surprising strength. He lashed out with his left arm, almost knocking the supervisor off balance from his crouched position.

Grissom realized his mistake and quickly switched gears. He held onto the agitated man as he struggled towards the open door, and gave him just enough support to guide him right towards the entrance. Crane scooted away as both men fumbled to the exit.

"You're not in the storage room anymore, Nick, but you need to lay still for a few minutes," Grissom instructed, his hands under each armpit as he led Nick to his much sought out escape.

Nick sputtered for air, all his weight along his elbows and knees, before he simply crumpled back down. He could see the darkened hallway, every fucking splash of red light, but the air was fresher, the feeling of entrapment abated somewhat. He laughed a cracked unnatural noise, wiping at his eyes and allowing his body to sag along the ground.

Crane stared at him with the most unreadable expression, almost pensive, at a slight distance. The prisoner's posture was less relaxed as he scanned the halls for any unwanted visitors. He moved the flashlight back towards the two CSIs wordlessly as the older supervisor kneeled down to begin his inspection. Nick buried his face along his uninjured left arm, shutting out the odd glare from the man's thick eyeglasses.

Grissom gestured for more light and the suddenly silent Crane moved closer, casting the illumination over Nick's body. Grissom saw the blood stain on the back of Nick's shirt; not a large one, but that wasn't necessarily significant. Grimacing, the supervisor carefully pulled up the sweat-drenched cotton garment to reveal a small hole in the right quadrant.

Grissom didn't dare touch the wound, knowing the excruciating amount of pain it would cause.

"Nick, did Ivan stab you anywhere else?" Grissom asked, hoping the CSI could hold together enough to answer him.

Nick lifted his head, moaning from anything that stretched his back muscles. "N-no, he just g-got me once."

'Sometimes that's all it takes,' the supervisor mused. He slid his finger along Nick's carotid, feeling the racing pulse beneath. Without the second hand of a watch, he could tell it was around 120 beats, and knew it would climb higher as the pain mounted.

"Does holding your breath help ease the pain?" Grissom inquired, his brain calculating responses.

"Hmmm, kind of," Nick rasped as he attempted to curl back up.

"Don't move, Nick. Keep flat on your stomach for now." Grissom gently laid his hand on the injured man's shoulder. "You've got to remain still to keep from aggravating the wound."

The other criminalist groaned in reply, his suffering an almost unbearable thing to watch. Grissom opened his mouth, but no words of comfort seemed adequate. He kept his hand along the shoulder as his source of compassion. The only solace he could offer was the cold facts that the both of them could cling to.

"It feels bad because basically a hole has been punched through the muscle. There's a small hematoma around the wound," Grissom explained seeing the ugly purple tinge around the stabbed area.

"Feels...f-feels like it went through my gut," Nick stuttered through clenched teeth. Rolling slightly to his side despite the maddening rip it sent along his flank. Talking somewhat face-to-face had more dignity.

Nick swallowed harshly. "How bad?"

Grissom took in Nick's pallor, harsh respiratory rate, and severe pain for what it was. He could tell the way Nick faced him, the young man knew it too. Grissom mulled over his answer, but knew honesty was what the other man really ever wanted. "I'm not a doctor and I don't how deeply he stuck you. Do you know what he used?" he stalled.

Nick's whole body trembled, sweat rolled down his forehead. He felt his legs pull forward in order to arch his back out more. He let out a long exhalation, the agony blurring his vision. "A damn …gold pen," he blurted out before wrapping his arms around his middle.

Grissom stared at the hole, imagining the metal pen jabbed inside, tearing and destroying everything in its path, damaging internal organs. Without real tests there was no way to tell for sure, but Grissom had a good theory. The supervisor noticed the fresh blood along Nick's arm and looked for something to staunch it.

"You ripped open your stitches," he commented.

Nick cradled the injured limb. "If my hunch is right," he gasped, sucking in a breath, "then this is of little consequence." Nick pounded on the ground with his right fist not caring about the flare up of boiling agony from his arm.

After several long seconds, the Texan let out a sob, and let his body go limp, too exhausted and consumed by the agony. He longed for numbness, for anything to make it all go away.

Grissom looked around the hallway franticly, his mind conjuring up scenarios. He locked eyes on the wheelchair and then pitted Crane with his stare. "We need to get him to the infirmary now," he growled.

Crane looked down at the damaged criminalist and shook his head. "Nick can ride it out, he--"

Grissom stood abruptly and hobbled over much faster than the stalker expected. Crane kept his neutral expression in the face of fierce emotion. "Facades or not, I know you care about what happens to Nick."

The geeky man simply looked away. Grissom jerked on the inmate's collar, earning an undignified expression, his smugness ever apparent. The man was still playing games. The supervisor didn't mind tipping his hand. "Without medical treatment, he won't last much longer."

Crane started to get agitated. "No, we stay here. Just fix him up or something."

Grissom was losing patience. "There's nothing I can do."

The inmate yanked out of the other man's grip, his loss of control obvious as he fiddled with his glasses in nervousness, and began to slightly pace. "No, no. Just stop the bleeding, bandage him up, or something."

Grissom stood there as the man began to irritably gesture with his hands in denial.

"SWAT will be storming soon, and we can't be caught in the hallways. It'll be too dangerous and then we'll get separated and, and---" Nigel began to breathe heavy, his agitation causing him to mumble incoherently under his breath.

"Listen to me!" Grissom demanded.

Crane froze in his tracks as he crossed his arms defiantly.

The supervisor inched closer, took a look behind him and lowered his voice. "I think his kidney is damaged, and if it is, then he can't wait for SWAT or anyone."

The man began to dismiss him, but Grissom held his attention. "I can't put pressure on the wound, not when he's bleeding internally." He worked his jaw testing treacherous waters. "You want to watch him die."

Silence. Darkness then the sting of the red light.

The inmate stared at Nick huddled along the floor, Crane's face stony and unreadable. Dark eyes gazed through plastic lens. "You're not being a real friend," he accused.

Grissom raised an eyebrow at the veiled dare. He wandered over by Nick and sat along the floor next to him. He took the man's clammy hand into his own and squeezed it. "Nick."

The man grunted, followed by a wheeze. He managed to channel his pain into a firm but weakening grip. He opened his eyes as his boss leaned down so the wounded man didn't have to move.

"Nick, I think you have a renal injury and I think it's serious. If you don't get proper medical attention I don't think you'll make it until the prison gets back under control." Grissom spoke very clearly.

Nick wet parched lips, his voice harder to hear from the stress. "Figured as much." He swallowed. "At least you were frank with me." He laughed somewhat hollowly. "Too bad now's the time you chose to do so."

As if on cue, Crane sauntered over next to both criminalists, a sort of glee in his eyes, always the manipulator. "I've got a wheelchair, Nick. We're going to take you to the infirmary."

Nick closed his eyes tightly in response, "I- I don't know--"

"Quit whining, Nick. They grow them tough in Texas don't they?" Nigel sneered, fully in control again.

Crane began to haul up the CSI without so much as a warning. Grissom intervened to make sure the man wasn't rough. Nigel smiled coolly at the older man as each one of them began to drape an arm under each shoulder, Grissom having more difficulty with his bum knee.

Nick howled in pain as he was maneuvered somewhat upright, the supervisor trying to keep him arched at an angle to keep from pulling at his back muscles too badly. With his body slung between him there were precious few steps towards the waiting wheelchair. The younger man's panting and cries of torture were loud and heartbreaking. Grissom and Crane swiveled him into the seat. Nick was unable to lean backwards and ended up in a terribly awkward position.

Crane snatched the handlebars away from the other man as Nick tried to ball up on one side, unable to maintain any pressure along his back and dangerously close to falling out. Crane somewhat gently 'eased' him into the left side and glided the chair away from the storage closet he had deposited him in.

Nigel leaned over to Nick's ear, his voice still loud enough for both men to hear. "We'll get you all fixed, Nick, so we can talk again. But I still have one more surprise along the way."


	16. Chapter 16

_"It's over, Nick."_

_"Then...it's over."_

_"It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon."_

Those fucking words were all that kept him from going back to another dark, tight space. Questions about integrity, honesty, and responsibility to keep him company. Nagging doubts about culpability, and his decision-making skills.

And why the Hell was he being argued about by the two people who at this very moment seemed so clueless to the fact that he wasn't deaf, nor was he some child to be curtly ignored. The world seemed to move so painstakingly slowly, not that he could judge the speed he was going with his eyes closed.

He may have felt like dying, but he certainly didn't need to be subjected to two forms of torture.

"Should have brought two wheelchairs," Nigel sneered near his ear. "Don't know why you put such blind faith in a guy who doesn't even--"

Nick felt the wheelchair lurch to a stop, his death grip on the armrests the only thing that kept him from spilling to the floor.

"This isn't the right way," he heard Grissom's voice to his other side. The supervisor had 'co-piloted' the whole time as it aided his ability to walk and gave the man some level of control, Nick thought.

Glad some things never changed.

"I know where I'm going," Nigel growled.

"You're taking us on another route. Stonewalling isn't going to help Nick and you know that."

_Always the acting commander,_ Nick mused darkly as he bent over to separate his body from his injury. His head was spinning on top of everything and the flashing light made him equally nauseous.

Nigel's light chuckle was like the scraping of nails. "Feeling a little inadequate at the moment, hmmm?"

Nick tried to rein in his heavy breathing; his ears pounded like a war drum, and now there was an uncomfortable silence.

"Nick's not going to ask you _how high _anymore, when you order him to jump. Kind of smarts, doesn't it?" Nigel said smugly.

Nutty Nigel rambled on, goading, and twisting. While Gil Grissom stood there taking it, although they had handed themselves willingly to the inmate, hadn't they? Nick let go of a breath he had been holding, letting it slowly exhale from his lungs as he gulped down another fitful amount.

"You see I know Nick. I know what's best for him, and I know that you're jealous of that," the man sneered.

He felt his cheeks burn again, the raging waters free from the large cracks and ruins of self-control.

"Then you know that we should keep moving and in the right direction."

Grissom had found his voice after all, still so very calm.

"Yes, the best direction, although the correct answers are always in the mind of the beholder. Are all your decisions right?"

"No," Grissom replied.

He felt the wheelchair move again; he let out a strangled cry from the jolt, but never opened his eyes. The way there he bounced painfully along, the apparatus jerked sharply as the two grappled for purchase. Nick could imagine each man's firm grip on each handle, vying for dominance. It made him feel ill.

"We're going my way. I'm doing what's best for Nick," Nigel contended after they renewed his appointed direction.

"Nick isn't a pawn in some game of yours, placating your personal needs over his well being." Grissom's voice was rising, just like it did when he argued about anything over right and wrong.

Nick heard Nigel snort as the prisoner placed a hand along his shoulder. It was such a blatant gesture of fake condolence as he patted him like a fucking child who needed some affirmation. Nigel let his hand rest there. Nick sucked in another breath, battling a wave of revulsion, and pure rage that sort of snapped inside him.

"That's what you do right, as his boss? Make choices for whatever will set your mind at ease. Such the stoic supervisor, must be tough to deal with someone so opposite of you, so much more...sensitive."

Nigel's hand never moved, it still sweetly patted him. Nick could imagine the self-assured smile across the inmate's face.

_Sensitive_. The word burned though his mind.

Pain flared up in his back as they took a slight turn; the ability to try to deal with the constant throbbing was slipping, stealing away everything else with it. Nothing but a hot skewer, twisting deeper and deeper into the muscle.

"My opinion doesn't factor into things. I generally let my people choose and learn for themselves," Grissom retorted with that same cool cadence.

Nick couldn't believe his ears, and Crane squeezed his shoulder, in a 'soothing' way. All it served to do was make him finally lose it. Crane might as well have jabbed his index finger inside the hole in his back and wrenched it inside.

Nick bolted out of the chair and stumbled into the darkness, hunched over and terribly unsteady on his feet. Spasms seized up his back, and ripped away any other control. Gasping for air, and leaning against the wall he turned to face the other two.

"Screw you, Nigel," he panted. "I'm not some pet of yours," Nick spat.

He saw Grissom's outline in the blackness, made out dim features of his face, two hands out as if approaching some petrified animal. "Nick. Calm down. Just..."

"Don't tell me to calm down", Nick growled at him. He was seething, in pain, paranoid, and lost in the dark with no end in sight.

Grissom didn't move, hands up in surrender. "Nick, you're not thinking clearly. Please--"

Nick remained partially doubled over- one hand on the wall, the other warning his supervisor away, despite how it trembled. "Don't chastise me!" he shouted as sweat dripped down his face.

Crane crept up along Nick's other side, arms folded over his chest.

"Back off, Crane," Grissom barked at him.

"Let Nick fight his own battles," the inmate retorted.

Fucking nut job stalker on one side, and a man who had disappointed him more than any other in his life on the other. It was so overwhelming while the hallway of fun complete with those damn blinking lights swam before him.

"Just stop it! Both of ya!" he said between clenched teeth. Standing had not been a good idea. His knees were buckling.

"We're very close to where we need to go, Nick." Nigel feigned some interest. "Not too much further; you can even walk there-if you can." The man shrugged.

Grissom stepped closer. "We can discuss things whenever you want. But right now it's vital we get you some help. You know that, Nick," he tried to reason.

"We...don't…discuss anything... Ever." Nick forced the words out, tough when he fought to keep from slumping to the floor.

His body won out, forcing Nick to his knees, Grissom knelt down right next to him.

Nick teetered on all fours, with a cry of pain, followed by another erratic breath for air. The floor came up to meet him, but he stayed rooted on hands and knees, swaying badly.

"You had no right!" Nick swatted at his supervisor's hand that went to touch his arm. "I trusted you," he accused.

Grissom seemed utterly lost, frozen on the floor, his CSI breaking to pieces in front of him. Words seemed so meaningless at a time like this, yet for some reason Nick craved them desperately. It seemed he had wronged the young criminalist in so many ways. He didn't even know which the ailing man was referring to at the moment.

"I know, Nicky." Grissom's voice was cracked, his pinched expression lost in the darkness. "I-I screwed up."

"W-which time, man?" he hissed. "I'm glad you got over it all." Nick panted now; he buried his head in the crook of his elbow. "I'm...still living it," the CSI groaned, coughing.

"Enough with the soap opera theatrics; I thought we were in a hurry," Crane egged on, a heavy scowl on his face.

Grissom ignored him. "Come on, Nick. I'll promise to listen and pay attention this time. You've overcome so much despite my mess-ups. You have a chance to stare at your past right in the face and conquer it." The supervisor wanted to make eye contact to see if he was connecting at all or hopelessly lost.

Nick lifted his head and stared through blurry eyes. "You're part of that... it's not an easy fix, Grissom."

The supervisor swallowed hard. "Reconciliations never are."

"Touching," Crane sneered. "Real Hallmark moment."

Grissom helped lift Nick to his feet, hands under his armpits, as he took on the brunt of his weight and both hobbled over to the wheelchair. The supervisor held on to both handles and dared the prisoner to try to commandeer it with his steely gaze.

Nigel huffed, and adjusted his glasses. "Keep up with me."

Grissom shuffled with difficulty allowing the wheels to sort of aid in his walk, his knee so painfully stiff that it would bend barely at all. They followed their guide with caution, a new row of cells starting to appear on their left, doors open, with empty beds. More ghosts running rampant; only so many places to hide before they ran into more loose inmates.

Grissom looked down at his charge; Nick was curled up as much as possible to one side, eyes tightly closed, mouth open, ragged breathing. At least the man was spared the tourist attractions, closely packed rooms, dark narrow hallway. He'd been so dense.

Nigel began to take a keen interest in them, glancing backwards on a more frequent basis. It made Grissom nervous. As they rounded another corner he almost bumped into the geeky menace when he stood there, a cold smile on his face. The janitor had crossed his feet in a mocking away, leaning casually along an open door jamb. Grissom slowed down, unsure what the next set of hijinks was. They were wasting time.

"See, Nick? Pure example of the weak, a real waste of time. I will never understand why you squander good oxygen on such deplorable examples of human beings."

Grissom angled the chair away from the entrance still wary, but turned to see what had Crane so smug it bordered on giddiness. The supervisor peered into the room, unable to see anything, just outlines of a bed. Cautiously he glanced at Crane who shook his head annoyed.

"No boogeyman; of course when it comes to that walnut of a brain who knows. If I was him, I'd hide under my bed too."

Nick stirred, seemingly roused by the orchestrated taunts. Grissom wanted him to keep still, but his criminalist moved awkwardly to seek out what was inside the cell. Instead of wasting time with more senseless arguing, Grissom maneuvered the wheelchair so Nick could see whatever the inmate had planned. Undoubtedly not the brightest of ideas, but time was of the essence and taking part in the stupid puppet show might be the quickest route to get them to safety.

Grissom inched the chair more inside the shoebox of a room, vigilant for anything. Crane flicked on his flashlight and illuminated the floor. The supervisor squinted, the sudden light overwhelmed his sight and slowly his pupils adjusted. A lone mattress rested on a standard frame, covers strewn on the floor, the rest of the room barren.

The sheets hung over and were sort of pulled under the bed, as if someone grabbed them, but didn't bother to slide them all the way down. Grissom still waited for some tell tale tell sign or movement. Nick's gasps for air almost overwhelmed other subtle sounds.

Grissom's curiosity got the best of him and with a silent plea with Nick to stay, he ventured further into the prison cell and squatted despite the pain in his knee. Cowering under the bed was Joseph Brighten. The inmate shrunk back at the mere presence of the criminalist. Grissom frowned knowing this was just another round of head games to screw with Nick.

What was he to do? The prisoner was safest where he was-had been thus far it seemed. What was the point of this exhibit…? What was Crane so desperately trying to prove?

Nigel needed Nick unbalanced, so unfocused and vulnerable to his manipulations. Sure the inmate wanted to keep Nick alive, but this dog and pony show had to stop. Nick was bleeding out right in front of him, powerless to stop it. It was all about power, what he could wrangle from the prone CSI and more importantly... what he could exact on him.

No more.

"What's goin' on, Gris?"

Nick's voice was weak, but the man wouldn't give up. Nick knew something was going on and while he was walking the straight and narrow he needed to keep to it. Ignoring things anymore was not going to solve anything. Too bad this new enlightenment was so damn late.

"Its Joseph Brighten. He's safe Nick." Grissom turned to see the smirk on Crane's face, and the pale one of his criminalist desperate to see for himself why they had been lured here.

"Joseph…Joey is pretty catatonic. We can't do anything for him now."

Nick picked up on the softness, the underlying sadness to his supervisor's tone. Even in the most macabre setting, he could really tell the pained honesty of the man. No fudging the truth this time. Despite how badly he hurt, his instincts as a criminalist were intact. Joey wasn't anywhere he could see him, the words of Nigel's loomed.

The poor guy was hiding under the bed, scared of whatever imaginable horrors in his mind, compounded by the chaos around him. Nick thought back to the files on Brighten, his fairly normal life shattered by evil and then torn apart by injustice. A man shredded to just primal rage, succumbed to fear, anger, and despair. Those feelings were so familiar, so tangible. How many times did he ignore them, or let them eat at him day after day?

What was it liked to be so totally ruled by them? To have your humanity sucked away. Biology or environment. Leon Stoyanov vs. Joseph Brighten... What fork in the road separated those two? Both minds devoured by something. Who was to say who was more 'innocent' than the other?

One loved to kill and the other resorted to it when everything else was hopeless.

Nick opened heavy lids, straining to make out the shell of a man who lacked whatever controlled that invisible line.

Joseph was tucked away avoiding the mad mad world he saw himself in, totally shut off from reality, and too cut off to deal with anything. That precarious line was so close, so blurred that Nick felt his rapid beating heart slam along his sternum even harder. Once you lost faith and let that line in the sand fade, then anyone could slip into the blackness that threatened to swallow your soul.

Part of him wanted to help, but knew he had nothing to offer. His head pounded in tandem with everything now...he was finding it hard to latch on to anything other than the blinding throb of his back. Nick nodded towards his supervisor; the relief on the other man's face was so transparent. The anger on Nigel's emanated in dark waves.

"Humph, where's your cape, Nick? Leave it at home…or did you see something you didn't feel like saving?" Crane dug at him even more.

"No more stops, Crane." Grissom demanded.

Nigel rolled his eyes, clicking the flashlight off, blackness enclosed them once again. "Can't promise we won't run into any more fun times once we get to our final destination."

Truer words had not been spoken. The phantoms of the prison had to lurk somewhere, if all the exits were blocked and half the beds were empty. The promise of drugs in the infirmary could be too much of a temptation to resist.

They were trying to avoid prowling lions, but sought after a much-desired den.

* * *

A/N: I'm back connected and looks like this site works for once. What wonders.


	17. Chapter 17

Grissom wrestled with the odd drag of the wheelchair. It was a tedious task to try to move it with his swollen knee and banged-up body, but mostly because the younger CSI was slumped to one side, forcing all of his weight to one area. The result was a constant struggle as well as a vigilant eye that Nick wasn't going to fall out. Sometimes he worried that the man had succumbed to unconsciousness, but those painful gasps of irregular breathing punctuated the silence all around them.

Part of him wanted to tell him that holding his breath like that wasn't really doing anything at all for the pain and was probably doing more harm than good. This time around Nick wasn't going to be at the receiving end of one of his lectures. If it made the man feel better in his mind, then the Texan deserved that small comfort, no matter how false it was.

Crane led the way, using that annoying broken broom handle as some sort of cane, the end tapping every once in a while along the cement, making just enough noise to alert their presence. At least that was his first thought, but Grissom was an observant man and noticed that tiny insignificant noise was some sort of intimidation tactic.

The echo was faint, but striking at the same time. Out of the corner of his eye during the raging lights, he noticed wayward prisoners, the 'tap' enough to send them skittering away, or take heed. If anything Grissom longed for the stick, even though it wouldn't be the correct height for use as a crutch. It would certainly aid his impaired leg.

Nigel should be pushing the chair. It'd be faster, but then there was no way he was going to relinquish control or give the slightest indication of weakness.

Grissom peered down at Nick, and suddenly knew so much more about him.

He pushed harder, _screw his pain_-he'd just force the nearly unmoving joint along. One more hallway, another turn, no backwards glances from Crane, no slowing down. There was not time.

Then as the pace increased, they entered one more corridor. Crane slowed down, his stride ever more cautious. There was noise up ahead.

They approached the infirmary, and heard a couple prisoners shout at the locked entrance and threaten the occupants inside. Shadows kicked at the door, stalking back and forth before it... Like the restless lions Grissom had feared.

It only took a few seconds until their presence was noticed.

Red flash. Darkness.

Movement between intervals of sight.

That's when the supervisor recognized both men as the guys they had encountered in the stairwell. The Ringleader and Minion A, the one he had tripped, stared at them. Both men gave up on their assault to the door to gawk at the trio.

The Ringleader laughed as he rubbed his hands together. "Looks like the piggies and friend came back for more fun." The man growled softly pointing his finger at Crane. "Owe you one, broom man."

Crane didn't react to the threat, then again the man never did waver in his emotions very much. He looked past the men, seeking the door, then turned to face them. "You're in the way. Why don't you go back to playing hide and go seek?"

The two inmates did not seem easily intimidated and why would they?

One hobbled older criminalist who had not had any physical confrontations in years. Check.

One nearly crippled and barely conscious CSI in a wheelchair. Check.

One deranged psychopathic stalker with stick. Check.

The odds were mathematically in disfavor of the good guys, or for the two law officers. Grissom tightened his grip on the handles, ready to shove Nick out of danger in order to give it his all with the criminals. The one thing that scared him the most was the fact that his co-worker had not reacted to the threat at all. Nick hadn't made a peep recently.

Crane regarded the inmates like a waste of space, sizing them up like the little ants that populated his deranged world. So smug and superior, this was one of the few times that the older man wished that the guy had the brawn to back up his ego. Grissom weighed his options at the standoff, tensing slightly as the red lights flickered for a moment.

Then flickered again.

Grissom maintained his guard, not letting the disturbance affect him as much as it did the other prisoners. The lights' normal patter of fluctuation became more erratic, blinking more rapidly, and out of sync with any sort of pattern. Then the sporadic flashes increased, as did the tension.

Crane stood motionless as the two goons became more skittish, the panic in their mannerisms more acute. Just as it became a crescendo, the lights went out completely; total and complete darkness engulfed all of them. The maddening red finally quiet.

It was all the nut job needed; the little man was swift, Grissom had to give him credit. Then again this was the same 'meek' man who had thrown Nick out a window; agility could out match brawn with the right surprise. Sounds of wood on flesh, the sick sounds of bone and weapon. Then even more terrified noise of fury-the smacks and whacks carried on way too long.

"Enough!" Grissom yelled into the total void.

The motion sliced the air around him, object versus unoccupied space. Only followed by more blind smacks.

"Crane!" he bellowed, until the sounds of silence followed... then heavy breathing.

Grissom moved his hands down to Nick's shoulder; fingers found warm flesh, movement of a trembling body, the sounds of breathing. He squeezed what felt like a shoulder until his ear tickled with a low whisper.

"All the bad wolves fell down."

Grissom held his breath, then exhaled as he heard footsteps pad away from him.

"Why are the lights off?"

And why the hell was he asking Crane?

The supervisor kept from jumping with another hiss to the opposite ear. "I'm not a psychic, though I'd guess that SWAT has just made their dramatic entrance to the building. Might want to get Nick safely tucked away. Perhaps you should ask sweetly... maybe Red Riding Hood might not frighten the staff packed away inside their house."

Grissom had a good memory and pushed the wheelchair closer, hoping he didn't bump into anyone along the way. The supervisor came to a stop, and rifled through his clothes and found his cell phone. He flipped the object open allowing the glow to guide him towards the sought out door. He ramped his hand along the metal.

"This is Gil Grissom of the Vegas Crime Lab. Is there anyone there?" He pounded harder. "Please, this a medical emergency, we're with the Vegas Police department," he huffed.

Not knowing how long the staff inside might have been provoked he slammed his fist against the door, pleading for someone to come open it, identifying himself as loudly as possible.

Grissom waited and repeated his insistence, beginning to worry that they would never get out of the freaking hallway.

"Mr. Grissom?"

The supervisor took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm with the Vegas Crime Unit, we have a medical emergency!" he yelled, chest heaving.

The male voice on other end argued with someone. "It's Angelo. I know who ya are, Man. You alone?"

Grissom was never so happy to hear a familiar person. "Yes, there were a couple of guys out here, but ---well, they are not awake right now."

It was obviously a tough choice, not knowing what went on behind the locked door, not sure if this was a ploy or not. The entomologist didn't want to give anyone time to talk themselves out of anything. "Please. We need help."

More sounds of bickering and he felt his eyes close in frustration. Finally the bolt turned, and the door barely opened. The black man's eyes peered into the corridor, listening and looking. Grissom wrapped his hand along the doorjamb; the man would need to smash his fingers to close it again.

"We don't have time for this," Grissom urged.

He heard the battle-ax nurse's voice rise, arguing. Angelo's eyes narrowed and pulled the door open a bit more, a faint light from inside allowed him to search the now dark corridor. Grissom kept his hands along the jamb and moved enough for the nurse to see Nick in the wheelchair. It seemed proof enough and the medical worker reared the barrier open and stepped into the hallway.

Grissom moved away as the burly man grabbed the handles of the chair and rolled the patient into the infirmary, the supervisor hot on his heels. The older female nurse was ready to slam the door back when Crane put his foot along the post and forced his way past the larger woman.

"Wouldn't want to leave me out in the cold, would you," he whispered in her ear. Then he stepped inside and instantly became passive in the far corner, eyes twinkling. "I'll play nice over here, while you take care of my buddy."

Angelo braked the wheelchair, torn between checking out the ill man and launching himself at the other arrival. Crane held out his hands innocently.

"He's with us. Long story," Grissom intervened, breathless at the concerned staff members. The older man looked back at Crane and then at the two nurses. "I promise he won't harm anyone."

Angelo glared at the docile inmate and then locked eyes with his partner. "Lou, dude's real bad,"' he warned. He crouched in front of Nick, looking back and forth between both critical situations.

The middle-aged nurse glared at Crane and took less than a second with the other criminalist, warning him with her eyes if things got out of hand. Then she hurried towards their patient and helped Angelo pull Nick out of the chair. The ailing criminalist cried out from the movement, too incapacitated to get his feet under him.

The two caregivers struggled with him between their arms as he wailed with pain at every jarring motion.

"All right, take it easy, Dawg," Angelo comforted the battered CSI. With a bit of difficulty they got Nick onto an exam table, the criminalist unwilling to lie on his back as he tried to curl up once again on his side.

Grissom stood back as he leaned along a counter, his mind racing with the newest stimuli. The infirmary had some light from several swivel lamps near the bed. The rest of the room was darkened, no humming of equipment. It was possible the medical ward ran off of some backup generator that wasn't affected by the crisis outside. He crept closer, but stayed out of everyone's hair, his attention split between Crane and his colleague.

Nigel was strangely quiet, body not so relaxed as before. His beady eyes were solely focused on the ongoing procedures in front of them both, his expression hard to decipher. The man seemed oddly fascinated as well as slightly on edge. He didn't feel like psychoanalyzing the stalker, but wondered if the man felt any distress at all for Nick's condition. It almost seemed like he did, or it could be that for once, the sociopath didn't have one iota of control in the medical emergency. He had lost his advantage, and that notion made Grissom nervous.

The stalker faltered for the briefest of moments, his eyes betraying fear, but that brief glimpse into his true self disappeared. Grissom saw plastic lens glare at him. "Nick won't die on me. You'll see."

Nigel Crane slumped to the floor, pushed his knees up like a sulking child and rested his chin on top of them. His gaze now totally transfixed at the activity across from him, Crane sat there. He studied, memorized, and soaked in every moment of Nick's battle with a minuscule amount of glee in his eyes.

Grissom squinted at the random mumblings. Reading his lips the supervisor cringed inwardly.

_"You did it for me. Did it just for me. All of it for me."_

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Grissom wasn't what one call very animated. No, most of the time it was his eyes that were the most telling; not that he 'did' stare but how he stared. The way his eyebrows arched, how tense the jaw, or flat his lips. Just tiny little fractures, forced into the role of spectator. Not just observer, since he was endowed with plenty of helpful knowledge. Physics, anatomy, biology, his chemistry skills were unchallengeable, but his brain had plenty to keep him occupied, and not in a good way.

Nick for now remained on his side, the back of his shirt rolled up, two lamps had been moved for examination since they lacked the needed harsh illumination. Louretta used a penlight to inspect the wound, Angelo carefully holding Nick so he didn't fidget.

"Right quadrant, around L1, avoided the spinal cord. Looks deep, though," she  
explained, casting her light over the rest of Nick's back for any other wounds.

"What about nerve damage?" Angelo questioned, looking over from the head of the exam bed.

The spitfire shook her head. "He's squirming around too much for that." She took her latex gloved hands and squeezed her patient's shoulder. "I know it hurts, sugar. Just lay still, we'll take care of ya."

Nick's response was a garbled plea for relief, face contorted, wet tracks along his face from obvious pain. It would appear he finally gave into his torment. No need to shield it, when he wasn't alone with just his boss and psycho guide.

Louretta snapped Grissom out of his thoughts. "What?" he stammered, not catching the question.

"I said, how long ago was he stabbed?" the testy woman demanded as the male nurse grabbed a blood pressure cuff and slung a stethoscope around his neck.

Grissom glanced at his watch, mind racing. "A little over an hour ago," he guessed. He swallowed hard at the fearful expression of the normally hardened lady.

"We need you to lay on your back, Hon," the caregiver explained as she nodded for her co-worker to carefully roll the CSI over.

Nick snatched her wrist obviously channeling everything into the grip, but it only seemed to faze the woman by its desperateness and not the force in which he was clamping on.

"I'm sorry, Hon. Shhhhhh," she cooed as both of them carefully maneuvered him over.

Nick's groans and fierce cry afterwards made Grissom close his eyes against the image that accompanied it.

The two nurses worked in an odd sort of grace, obviously synced from many years of working together. She took some scissors and cut away the cotton of Nick's shirt, while Angelo listened to the man's chest. His partner shined the light into Nick's pupils.

Angelo took his stethoscope and placed it long the uninjured arm, as he deflated the BP cuff. "Pulse's racing at 140. BP's soarin' at 150 over 100."

The older woman grabbed a bag of saline and began to hang it to a pole that her leg had snagged. She ripped open a package, gathering the IV tubing and patted down the left arm, palpating for a vein. She seemed satisfied. "Gonna sting for just a sec," she said as she began inserting the needle into the man's wrist and making sure the line was untangled.

She looked up finished with her task. "Resps?" the older woman demanded.

"Irregular, 22 BPM. Gonna put him on a mask," he said snagging a portable machine and unwrapping some tubing that lead to a plastic device that he slid over Nick's mouth and nose.

Grissom wasn't lost; O2 via mask was indicative of a low oxygen level. Most likely by the fact that Nick continued to gasp for air, holding his breath at other times. He bit his lip, knowing that Nick's defensive reaction was detrimental, even when trying to give the man much needed comfort he still missed the mark.

Nick panted into the mask; condensation fogging it up, he tried to wrangle his body in any direction to avoid the constant prodding. Pure animal instincts, since the medical workers had not even really touched his stab wound. Grissom found his body leaning closer, hands still keeping him propped up along the counter.

Louretta moved along to the head of the bed and leaned over to speak softly to the distraught man. Her voice was almost sweet, her bedside manner ever reflective of the dire situation. "Nick. Please calm down, and try to breathe a little slower." She looked up at her co-worker.

"Sat's are 86 on 2 liters." Angelo hunkered down. "Take it easy, Dawg. Just let the mask do all the work, a'ight?"

Louretta peered down at Nick who had attached both hands to the railing, squeezing the metal bars so hard that his arms shook. "Nick, sugar. I need you to do me a favor. Angelo is going to get a cup for you to urinate into. Think you could do that?"

Nick shook his head back and forth, agitated some how. The female nurse pursed her lips. "Bust open the cabinets and get out the Diazepam and Morphine."

The woman's glare got the black man hustling. The male nurse grabbed a towel, wrapped up his hand and punched through the glass. He searched franticly, probably hampered by the lack of light. After fussing through several vials handed them to the other caregiver.

Grissom watched her expertly inject two solutions into the IV. She patted the young man's hand. "Nick, I gave you somethin' to help calm you down and try to help with the pain"

Nick's response was ragged groans, his head lolling to one side. Grissom felt his feet moving, dead weights as he stepped closer to the bed. Angelo moved aside, pumping the BP cuff, listening intently.

Hesitant and almost on autopilot because if he thought too hard he'd rationalize that this too was of no help. Grissom hobbled closer and sought out his criminalist's hand, and pried it away from the death grip along the railing. With the sedatives slowly coursing through the man's veins, Nick sort of wrapped his fingers around his boss's offered support.

Grissom didn't say anything; words were trivial, awkward. Nick puffed along the plastic constraint, scared eyes looked at him, and Grissom just gripped the man's hand tighter.

It did something; Nick choked back another sob and closed his eyes. Grissom squinted, feeling terribly inadequate, as ever so slowly Nick's raspy heaving slowed little by little. The man's face was still etched in pain, but seemed to focus at his surroundings.

Both nurses rattled off vitals, giving the ailing man a moment to try to compose himself, the male eying the corner with warning. The supervisor didn't move, didn't open his mouth, he did want he needed to.

"Nick, listen to me, Hon. I need you to pee for me, okay?" the woman asked, the tide shifting to more urgency in her voice.

Brown eyes opened and although pained, he formed semi-slurred words from under the plastic. "I can't. I----I can't, Ma'am."

Louretta sighed heavily. "Call me Lou, sugar." She patted his shoulder. "I'm going to have to get a urine sample. Means I'm gonna have to stick a tube in ya. Gonna be uncomfortable, but it needs to be done."

Grissom sympathized with Nick's next groan. As the medical workers wasted no time in gathering the needed supplies. Louretta grabbed another kit and prepared the catheter and lay it down on a sterile tray. Angelo returned with a heavy pair of scissors as Nick began to get overly agitated despite the sedative.

The supervisor tried to reassure the man as he struggled on the bed, both nurses trying to calm him and prevent further injury. Mortified eyes locked with his and Grissom let go and stepped away. His mind in overdrive he turned around to see Crane staring intently, his enthrallment at the whole tragedy made his stomach burn. Thinking quickly, the older man looked around the room until he spotted one of those partitions.

He moved it along, cutting off the man's view, then with renewed vigor he stepped in front of the curtain and stood, blocking off the moving shadows as the personnel began the procedure.

Crane bristled and stood up. Grissom merely glared at him coolly. The nerdy man huffed, then gave a look of disgust. "Please. I'm not some sick pervert."

The supervisor didn't reward the man with any sort of retort, knowing how much Crane thrived on conflict.

The inmate snorted, then pushed up his glasses. "Merely fascinated with the whole drama."

The silent treatment was unnerving the little man; as he launched into more defensiveness, pacing along the back corner he'd been subjected to remain in. "Been here for three years now...waiting...knowing that, of course...well…" Crane mumbled, his stride indicative of his increased agitation.

The stalker whirled around, then crossed his arms in front of him. "I just wanted to see Nick know what it's like to be exposed." Crane lowered his voice. "To have his pain on view. To experience true humiliation."

The elation reflected behind his glasses and leeched into his tone. Grissom felt his knuckles pop and stared down at them dumbly, never aware that he had balled up his hands, his thumbs crushing his pointer fingers. He lifted his head, jaw moving back and forth and took slow deliberate steps towards the inmate. Crane narrowed his eyes, posture tense, waiting for the reaction.

Grissom held the other man with a slow, methodical, gaze. He arched an eyebrow, his voice paper thin, "Only those closest to Nick would know how utterly wrong you are. You'll never know his true resiliency, never understand that bearing witness to that kind of pain is something that no true friend would ever want to experience. It's haunting, terrifying for those who really care, so much so that you're changed forever."

Grissom moved closer causing Crane to hit the counter behind him. "Obviously, you're the same little man seeking vindication in others. Getting your pleasure from the pain from your victims..." Grissom blocked the inmate's view of anything over his form. "Well, you won't get that now."

Nigel wiggled, backed away into the far corner by the door. "No, no, you're all wrong. I-I don't want...I-I I'm sorry he's hurting. Nick's...he's my friend, he came to get my help."

Crane began babbling on and on, staring at the floor while he argued with himself. Grissom eyed him warily, aware of all the commotion from behind the partition. It seemed that the ex-cable guy had gone back to sulking and muttering, slouching in the corner lost in his own deranged world. He watched as the disturbed man went on and on. Torn, he went back towards the little private area he'd created and stepped towards the edge of the curtain, one eye on Nick's care, the other on his problem.

Nick had been covered by a sheet, his body more relaxed and mercifully calmer under the haze of blissful narcotics. His breathing was more at ease, steady and slow. His more peaceful state was the exact polar opposite of the two nurses who monitored him. Feeling the tension he took note of a few things that he'd been too preoccupied before to really notice. As a scientist he knew things were bad, but with the lack of light and time, was unable to really observe the extent of the problem.

Nick's face was drained of color, pale and waxen. The man had gotten considerably weaker, borderline unresponsive, as they had searched for the infirmary. Constant relentless pain had taxed the body of its resources to the point that Nick was incapable of supporting his own weight. Both nurses caught him staring there, silent and lost.

Loretta whispered something to the other nurse who nodded and began to listen to Nick's heart again. The old battle tank looked a bit frayed and worn around the edges. Grissom knew...he understood that the nurse did, too. Why else had she turned so suddenly soft when they came in?

Louretta stood before him the bearer of bad news. "There's blood in the Foley."

Grissom nodded.

The lady took pity on him, glancing back, but she seemed to sense that the man before her would only appreciate cold hard facts.

"We're talking about definite renal damage, probably a type two injury. I'm guessing laceration to the kidney, probably injury to a major vessel."

Grissom knew it in his gut, but solemnly nodded. "What---I mean. What's his prognosis?"

Louretta took a glance at her patient. "The kidney has a protective sheath that shields it. I've been around the block. From his pallor I know about how many units he's lost. I think the sheath closed up and he's still bleeding internally. His BP and pulse are rapid because his heart is pumping to try to keep up with the volume loss."

Grissom found his voice, it was steadier than he imagined. "It won't keep up for much longer. Soon he'll just bleed out."

The nurse frowned. "I'm afraid so. As he gets worse his pulse and pressure will get astronomically high, then...well then both will fall very rapidly. Once his pressure bottoms out, then we'll lose him. We can't perform surgery here. Not a large enough ward to require an operating area."

"How long?" He hated his empirical mind.

"Less than an hour, maybe sooner." The older woman let her words sink in for a moment before her next question. "You two close?"

Grissom felt compelled to stare, eyes tracking, and mind locked on hold. He said nothing, just wandered over towards the bed, and stood there.

Angelo adjusted the IV and glanced over at the older man. "He's really out of it. He can still talk for a little bit, but we wanted to ease his pain."

Grissom fumbled for a response, grappled with something wise and soothing for his criminalist. Something to take it all way, but what could? The supervisor got as close as the railing, his hands faltered along the steel handles.

"Just give his shoulder a slight shake, he'll come to if you want to say something," Angelo offered.

The supervisor just squinted...too completely lost.

The black nurse felt pity for the man. "You know who did this to him?"

Grissom looked into sympathetic eyes and with a sad hollowness simply answered, "I did."

* * *


	18. Chapter 18

Angelo wasn't about to play shrink with the older man, his response some sort of cryptic guilt. The male nurse tried to offer some small hope. "We're pumping him full of fluids; it'll help for a bit. Re-wrapped his arm, we'll let a specialist re-stitch it back up, so that we can avoid leaving too bad a mark."

"You finally give him some antibiotics?" Grissom asked, stalling.

The medical worker frowned. "Yeah, Man. We did." He cleared his throat. "Last we heard, SWAT entered the first floor maybe fifteen minutes ago. If they don't run into any snags we might have enough time."

It was like a giant bell went off inside his head and Grissom fixed the man with steel blue eyes. "You've been in contact with the SWAT Team?"

The man nodded. "Yeah. Up until you guys came in here. Been keeping up with them on the phone."

Grissom whirled around, searching the dimly lit room. "Have you told them about the new situation? About us?"

"Nah, man. We've been busy trying to help your guy here." The nurse sensed the impending question. "It's a cordless; you want to drop a dime on someone?"

He faltered, knowing that a few minutes would be worth spending. "Yes," Grissom replied all ready retreating from the bed.

Away from something he just couldn't do yet—wouldn't, if he had a way to change an outcome that had all ready been accepted by everyone else in the room.

Angelo scattered towards some point in the room, leaving Grissom alone with Nick. Before he could curse himself for being a coward Loretta made her way over, a more gentle air about her. It annoyed him a bit, how she suddenly learned a more compassionate bedside manner now that Nick's condition was considerably frailer. The older woman monitored vitals, every gesture as unobtrusive as possible, great care and warmth whenever she touched the young criminalist. Speaking softly as she sent _him_ seething looks.

The supervisor stiffened under the scrutiny, a leopard judging him. Then it struck him as the other nurse bounded back eager phone in hand, that maybe Nurse Louretta and he had a lot more in common. That she knew. This complete stranger had him pegged for the chameleon that he was.

Grissom nodded at her, acknowledging her assessment and warning. He turned in time to accept the phone dialing a number he knew by heart.

The phone rang, and rang. He had almost given up hope, when a gruff voice answered.

"Jim." Grissom greeted.

"_Gil? Jesus, man. Where are you? You guys still inside, I mean---"_

"Yes, we are. Jim, I need you to listen to me." Grissom's hands ached around the phone, as he squeezed it tight with urgency.

Silence indicated he got the desired attention and he felt calmer as seconds ticked by. He slipped into command mode with gusto. "Are you in communication with the SWAT Team?"

"_Sort of."_

Good Jim, just answer my questions don't speculate, he thought. "It's imperative that they get to the fourth floor to the informatory."

"_Is that where you guys are holed up?"_

"Yes. They should have blueprints, the most direct route. We need EMTs up here right away. There are several injured prisoners and at least one guard that needs attention along this area."

He swallowed, trying to be objective, to be fair to the other casualties of this nightmare. The Captain caught on to his ruse.

"_You guys all right? You take cover in there when things went to Shit?"_

Grissom closed his eyes, his voice bare and brittle. "Jim, we got to get the paramedics up here now. Nick's...he's hurt real bad and he can't wait for them to take their sweet time. Get them here." He breathed. "Please."

"_Christ Gil. I mean of course...but damn. They just entered the third floor, it's a mess."_

"I don't care!" Grissom felt it crumbling all of it...everything...  
He forced it all way...all of his feelings. Should have been an easy feat, a reflex. Instead he focused on his respiration.

This time his voice was softer. "Maybe get another team up here? While they're covering the third. They have two ways to enter here, Jim."

"_I'll sure try, Gil. Christ. Okay, I'll pull in every favor, threaten who needs to be...we'll try. Look, everyone else wants to talk to you."_

He was already shaking his head. "I can't. Not right now. Call this number when you know something."

Grissom shut the button off, cutting off a plethora of questions and worry. No, not now.

Angelo was out of earshot, playing guard dog over the increasingly twitchy Nigel, and keeping a respectful distance. No way to dodge the other caregiver; Nurse Louretta hovered too close, her job keeping her at arm's reach. She didn't say a word to him, didn't offer him to call her Lou---or any other form of charity.

The male nurse had moved a stool near the bed aware of his impaired movements, knowing full well his banged up knee was the last thing on his mind. He concealed a slow groan as he stiffly lowered his battered body to the seat.

It was there he simply stared; guilt, remorse, anger—yes at his actions and at Nick's. The man should have stayed at the Lab, followed orders—then again, if their communications skills hadn't been in such disrepair. If his CSI had not felt that he had ran away with the case in some awkward need to shield him. If Grissom had been straight and if Nick had been receptive...well...it was all moot.

Grissom watched the steady rise and fall of the man's chest, a bluish bruise marred his cheek right around a cut along his jaw. Another one marked his shoulder, blunt force along pale skin. The supervisor's hand tentatively floated above an arm swathed in cotton and tape. The limb had been cleaned and sterilized, though blood stains still smeared a wrist and hand where it had dripped from the wounds.

His mind went instantly to Nick's clothes, cut away denim littered the floor. Before his shirt had been sliced away, Grissom recalled a faint red bloody palm print around the collar, when Ivan had restrained Nick in an attempt to torture him. A shudder ran down his spine, goose flesh along his own arms. A fuzzy flash of a demented face; dead eyes, a scalpel's tip right below his right eye socket.

Grissom blinked back the memory and rested his hand on the young man's bicep. "Nick?"

It was the first time he noticed the oxygen mask had been replaced by a nasal cannula. He looked up confused at the nurse, who caught his stare.

"Once he calmed down his sats went back to around 94. Cannula should make it easier for him to talk for a little bit. He's on very heavy painkillers... thought it only right." She then busied herself with checking tubes, his pulse, anything to seem distracted.

He licked his lips, and shook the shoulder. "Nick, can you hear me?"

Eyes fluttered open, then squeezed tightly at the light from the two lamps that bathed him in low illumination. Nick moaned, head turning away from the light, mouth opened and closed, stale and dry from probable lack of moisture. Instinctively a hand clutched at the sheet and pulled it tighter over his body, as he faced his boss. Heavy lids closed and fought to stay open; a shaky intake of breath through a nose and open mouth.

Inaudible sounds from a dry throat, and Grissom looked on silently. Nick's head lolled somewhat, the dullness of his eyes struggled to focus, drugged-hazed brain and panic lazily fought. The criminalist peered down at his body sluggishly, but his expression reflected distress. He pulled at the thin white sheet that covered him.

His head seemed too heavy to lift, so it dropped back down. With great difficulty he turned it. Now very large eyes glared at him. Grissom leaned forward, hand patted awkwardly.

"What is it, Nick?"

It seemed all the ailing man wanted to do was shriek under the covers, hand still full of fabric, his body trembled now, teeth began to shatter.

"Mmmrphh"

Grissom searched franticly for the cause of alarm, trained but weary eyes tried to view everything like Nick would. His gaze fitfully drifted, no odd sounds. Crane invisible behind the barrier, no buzzing alarms, since there was no equipment to alert people of the increased anxiety.

Nick managed to wrap his fingers around his wrist and Grissom lost it. He fucking lost it all. Finally...mind in Nick's position, surrounded by this situation he _got it._

He turned to the nurse who almost shooed him away for causing undo stress. "You have a blanket? Or another sheet?"

Louretta looked at him not comprehending...too hardened by a tough job. A man like Nick feeling so openly exposed and on display furthest from her thoughts.

"He's cold." That wasn't totally the truth, but he wasn't going to say anything else out loud for the younger man's benefit.

Massive blood loss could cause the man chills, but he ignored that logical part of his mind. Grissom tried not to take in a sick pallor, too pale to even show the hue of red along pasty cheeks. Nick's embarrassment and humility would be protected. Grissom grimaced for him as he fumbled, not knowing what was appropriate. Nick wanted what? Compassion, but don't show it. Respect, but don't over do it, or it was a sham. Anger because he cared but not too much or you were an evil SOB.

Instead he slid down his hand into Nick's, not caring about what was correct. The older man coughed. "Help's coming, Nick. Just stick with me, okay?"

All his criminalist did was twist the bed sheets with uncoordinated fingers, eyes away from his.

The nurse's arrival was a blessing as she draped a grey blanket over Nick's body, shielding any further vulnerability. The effect was immediate as he pulled the worn fabric up to his chin, tops of his shoulders still exposed. Tubes still snaked out from his arm and from another places, but Grissom adjusted his grip.

"It's almost over."

Nick seemed to wince at the familiar words and the supervisor soon regretted it.

"The SWAT Team is just below us, then help will arrive." He wanted to keep Nick's attention.

It was a struggle, Nick battled the narcotics. "Hmmm, another dead man." He finally looked at him. "By the office," he whispered, eyes fluttering.

Nick looked lost, zoning out to the tiles of the ceiling, but forced his head to the side, soft, faint eyes for the first time really looked at him. "W—what happened?"

Grissom scrunched his face not sure if this was another ramble, but then realized he must have looked a sight, cuts along his cheeks from Ivan's attempt at barber skills. "Nothing."

Even in his struggle with the pain meds, Grissom saw his words backfiring. He leaned closer, voice low, but loud enough to hear. "It's...it's frightening to be at the whim of a madman. No matter how formidable you are---how much brain, how much brawn...you feel helpless. Dependant."

Nick licked his lips, "It's...not easy." He closed his eyes, his deep breath along plastic tubes for air supply.

"Especially when you just want to pretend it never happened afterwards." Grissom added, hoping it conveyed what he had failed to ever talk about.

Nick moved his head, heavy mast of eyes adrift at the ceiling again, his hand slack between Grissom's fingers.

"Or...if others want...to forget as well." Nick's lips moved more, but nothing came out.

The sound of a BP cuff pumped, as Grissom strained to catch bits and pieces more. He looked up at the female nurse who stared at her watch, fingers on the carotid at Nick's neck, her eyes spoke the dreaded news.

"I just wanted what was the best for you," he blurted out.

Nick's eyes rolled over to his, "N-nnnot...your...choice," he croaked.

"No...It wasn't." He replied, his fingers curled tighter, but Nick's remained lax.

"Hmmmrh...you...stole...from...me...n...not...fff...aaair"

Nick fought oh he hung on, by every tooth and nail. Low catch in his throat as the drugs overpowered his system, as a body began to flutter and weaken.

It sounded like a wheeze, little scraps of words, so swallowed up, with just a little movement of muscles between his fingers.

Grissom never let go, bent over as much as he could, over that damn hitch in breathing as Nick resisted a need to submit.

"Nnnnneeee—vverrrrrr," the young man moaned softly, hand bobbled along Grissom's. "Wannted, t-this."

He rubbed his thumb a little between the fingers that grew colder by the second. "I know you didn't want this to happen. I've should have been more vigilante about your surroundings about the impact. I should have been extra cautious about this situation for the both of us."

Some alien whine, tore through the younger man's throat and the supervisor concentrated to the mere whisper. This time words didn't make it past the man's mouth, just lips that still tried to work. Grissom tried to read what Nick so valiantly tried to convey.

_Didn't want ...to become ...so lost._

Grissom strained to see what sound couldn't make.

_Didn't want... to be this... at all._

"You should really let him rest, Sir." Louretta glared at him.

"But, I'm not done," he told her and then, looked at Nick. "I'm not done. I..." Grissom closed his mouth knowing it was useless. "I was wrong, Nick. I ---" He shook his head. "I was selfish, it wasn't fair. None of it."

Nick's eyelids fluttered closed, too much of a struggle. Grissom felt his blood run cold, as the man drifted off, moisture ran trails around a slightly battered face.

"Sir," the pushy caregiver was trying to usher him away.

"He's not resting!" The supervisor snapped at her.

"Deal with your problems somewhere else, but don't harm the health of my patient," she hissed. Louretta looked for her co-worker as she began to move to the other side of the bed. Obviously she'd force the man away, the woman not afraid to exert her command.

Grissom ignored her, he was good at that. Dismissing people when they were too much, or he was uncomfortable with a topic. He shook Nick again, trying to rouse him. "Maybe I didn't act like I trusted you...that you were not capable of handling things. I didn't want you to lose yourself to Crane, to get sucked into his world. I know you, Nick, the man didn't deserve any empathy he'd steal from you."

Louretta shuffled closer only to be distracted by something or someone. Grissom paid it no mind as he felt like he had been given this only chance. "The whole Gordon thing—both times." He scooted closer, his voice a mere whisper over the man. "If I put it behind me, if I could do it, maybe you could too. But, I'm not you Nicky...never could be. Modus operandi---our ways of functioning are vastly different. I didn't give when you needed it, and pushed when you were unwilling. I'm a terrible teacher, Nick."

Grissom picked his criminalist's hand, held onto the limp, unresponsive fingers. "You don't need to be my student anymore Nick. You don't have anything else to learn, but please, give us a chance to rebuild the foundation. We can still work as a Team. I got you guys back, but I never reached out afterwards."

He swallowed, huge freaking lump in his throat. "I didn't learn Walter's lesson at all."

"Sir."

"Mr. Grissom."

He ignored them all. "You fight it Nick. You hear me!"

The supervisor held onto Nick's hand but tore away from eyes that never opened. He looked up at Angelo whose gaze he wanted to wipe away. Nurse Louretta stood behind the more kindly caregiver. "I know you're trying to help, but you need to let us do our jobs, man."

"Don't do it, Nicky. Not now. Not with what you've over come in the past." It was desperate, and he didn't really much care either way.

He moved away silently, his body almost unwilling to budge, be it pain or an ache in his chest. Grissom faltered slightly past the partition, but he hid his new low sense of being when he sensed Crane looming nearby.

"I want to talk with Nick," the geeky man demanded.

Grissom didn't answer him; his feet remained firmly where he stood. Between the ex-cable man and the man the stalker sought out.

"No."

Crane became incensed. "I'm the one who he came here to see. I saved him. Took care of him. You can't keep me from speaking to him," he huffed testily, body shaking as he seethed.

"Get back in the corner or I'll have Angelo sedate you," Grissom threatened.

Nigel's face reddened, "How dare you!" he hissed. He looked past the supervisor. "Nick! Nick, you tell him!" he bellowed. "Tell him how much you need to speak to me!"

_He can't talk you little twerp. One of your buddy cell mates stabbed him and then you locked him in a damn closet. You bastard._That's what Grissom wanted to yell, to scream while he throttled the little man.

Instead he watched as Nigel Crane prattled on and on, cursing a storm, until the large black nurse stormed out to shut the man up.

Grissom really wished the nurse would just shoot the guy full of Ativan, but the meekly rat scurried back to his corner and pouted and stewed. Before the supervisor could suggest that sedation was the best thing despite a small voice of reason, the cordless phone rang and his heart thundered in his chest at the hope that Jim Brass had come through.

* * *

A/N: This will be 23 Chapters long. Thanks to all the new and older faces for your feedback. Notes at my bio.


	19. Chapter 19

It was all too much...all the noise, the sheer amount of flashing lights. Exactly how many camera crews needed to vie for precious position? A very edgy controlled mob, the fresh scent of blood and gore with sensational headlines in their enrapt eyes. Walkie-talkies, chirping on and off, never at the same time. Every little squawk of white noise another layer of air pollution. Skittish rabbits scurrying around with the War Hawks, big bad elite forces chomping at the bit to get a piece of the action.

Sara must have worn away a spot in the asphalt, warned away too many times to let the professionals handle things. Jim Brass never mouthed a word; his eyes spoke for him. Catherine gave up on trying to reason with her, settled for trying to smooth talk Conrad Ecklie into sharing with them anything he knew and goading him into letting them have more 'direct' access to the operation.

The shrieking of a car horn nearly made her jump out of her skin. A familiar Denali cut in and out and parked at a designated space. A very agitated Warrick Brown nearly got into a scuffle with security verifying his credentials and their 'list' of approved personnel. Seething and brushing past some of the security people none too politely, he hurried over.

Sara was on her last nerve, and trying to calm down; Warrick wasn't something she could handle right now. The speeding locomotive couldn't read her mind and made a beeline at her direction, but thank goodness for a very tactful boss. Catherine intercepted the steamroller of raw energy and pulled the man aside. Sara went back to gawking at the command area, sending looks of death at Conrad Ecklie, even if the guy had nothing to do with the crisis.

Jim Brass's badge gained him a bit more access and he tried to share his scant intel with her. His strides and brief stop attracted enough attention and like a flock, the rest of the original graveyard shift hung on to any new morsel of information. Sara was happy that Greg had been spared this added turmoil away at his conference. Of course being hundreds of miles away must have been torture; but then again, he didn't need to witness this three-ring circus.

_Bring in the clowns_, Sara thought, before paying attention to the gruff man before them all.

"They're entering the third level, and most of that area is fairly under control. Many prisoners were in their bunks and the cells contained. Most areas have been secured, but there are a number of loose inmates. Guards cordoned off areas, keeping them in sections of the level and seemed to keep any riots from breaking out."

Catherine tossed some of her hair back, hand grinding into her tense neck. "Any word where our guys are?"

Warrick bore into the man with his gaze, hands on hips ready for any type of confrontation. "Aren't they on another level?" He turned to Sara. "Suspects are on the fourth one, right?"

Sara cleared her throat. "Yeah. General population is on the third. How'd you know?"

Warrick crossed his arms. "Had Hodges read Nick's field report to me over the phone."

"Okay. So we know they're clearing the third floor, it sounds like that level is not the war zone they feared."

The Captain glanced back. "There's resistance from the small groups of inmates that are stirring things up. But tear gas and a row of body armored SWAT is defusing those trouble spots."

"And the fourth floor?" Warrick asked, cutting to the chase. "If Grissom was trying to get dental impressions from the four suspects, then he and probably Nick are on that floor, right?"

Jim seemed deflated, eyes wavering not to make contact. "That one they're going to scout out first. No plans to enter until the third is totally secured and any injured brought out safely."

"Place is bound to have tighter security, Jim. It houses the more dangerous felons. I'm sure they're with some guards or found a safe place to sit things out," Catherine speculated.

"Sure hope so. We only have garbled reports and incomplete information. Computers and some communication are all on the fritz including the programs that run power," Jim explained.

Sara fiddled with the fabric of her shirtsleeve, mind zoning in and out about something she felt was vital to pay attention to. Her mind was too focused on dissecting a puzzle, her eyes drifting to the dog and pony show of the political bozos from the Sheriff's royal court, looking oh so serious and concerned and chatting away with some of the hospital staff. Her muscles tensed whenever she studied the two doctors, the last people to see her two friends.

Dr Rhodes paced around, cell phone glued to one ear, shouting and gesturing. His little kingdom was falling apart. His protégé, the Class-A-Geek, Stanfield, erred on the side of caution. Aloof and alone from the group, eyes off in space only to drift back towards the building. The man was twitchy, almost annoyed by the paparazzi and police. He oozed irritation at a plan that had backfired or gone awry.

Hand sunk in pockets, not a sign of anger or outrage from a place of study slowly imploding. No concern or sadness even...just cold, emotionless acceptance of a mad experiment gone wrong, simply waiting to pick up the pieces.

Sara felt her temperature rise, her lips thinned from her running emotions. Sara opened her mouth to express her need to get them focused on the people responsible for this. Soon she realized that she had really zapped out of reality, silencing the chaos around her. Her face furrowed, she had missed most of an important phone call. Jim's voice frantic, with clipped responses. The rest of the team ready to wrestle the phone from his grasp.

"I'll sure try, Gil. Christ. Okay, I'll pull in every favor, threaten who needs to be...we'll try. Look, everyone else wants to talk to you." Jim looked at anxious eyes, but frowned when it seemed the call had ended.

"What's going on, Jim?" Catherine was the first to the punch.

Sara didn't press for answers; the older man's eyes were haunted. She silently looked past him, at the building, at the madhouse, and then at the physician who watched his sand castles get swept away by the ocean's waves.

"That was, Gris, right?" Warrick asked.

Sara didn't need to hear the response; she knew in her gut something very wrong had happened. The whole case was nothing but a Pandora's Box that had been opened, its demons spilled forth. The case, its criminalists, all just walking contradictions.

"Yeah," Brass replied. "I gotta go talk to Ecklie."

Sara watched the Captain try to slip away, urgent as he whirled around sort of shell-shocked.

"Hey!" Warrick stepped forward; his fingers slipped off the fabric of Jim's overcoat. "If you spoke with Grissom, then what's wrong?"

Sara felt her stomach twist; Catherine gazed at the building, her body shuddered. Warrick's face crumpled, his jaw tense as he shook his head. "It's Nick. Isn't it?"

"Yeah. I don't know anything else, but I have to go talk to Ecklie." Jim took a deep breath. "I'll be back."

Sara watched him make his way over to the inner circle of chaos, bully his way towards Ecklie and give the man an earful. She stood there as the two men traded a heated exchange, followed by almost desperate pleas.

Conrad Ecklie looked shaken, upset, annoyed, but he was moving and he was yelling. At SWAT, at the Sheriff, at them all.

Warrick cussed and began his unhelpful pacing, asking Catherine more questions, losing his good sense to the scene that seemed to suck sanity away. The entire time she was strangely quiet, compartmentalizing everything, analysis on overdrive. Before long Brass had made his way back from his powwow.

Somewhat breathless he pulled out his cell phone. "They're sending in another small team to make their way onto the fourth floor, while the main operation on the third goes on."

Catherine was nodding head relieved. "How'd you pull that off?"

Jim looked at her with all seriousness. "Made a deal with the Devil."

There was silence and Sara was pulled out of her thoughts when a hand touched her shoulder. "You've been acting quiet, Sara. What's on your mind, girl?"

Sara looked up at worried green eyes and noticed the inquisitive expressions of her teammates. She wet her lips and turned back towards the building. "I think its time we reel in the mad scientist responsible for all of this."

* * *

Grissom could hear the blood pump in tandem with his breathing, rapid and way too harsh. The sound of Jim Brass' voice music to his ears. Help was coming. A team headed their way, dispatched through that battleground in the stairwell. He reined in his thundering heart; a hopeful thought that perhaps Franco was still alive and intact to save. That he hadn't been hauled off to be torn part by another horde. The guard would be the first pulled out of this Hellhole. Nick would be relieved. 

He looked over at the two nurses, getting their patient ready for immediate transport. Portable oxygen tank rested against the patient's legs. Both nurses made sure that each vital plastic tube remained untangled. Angelo changed out the IV bag with fresh fluids. The Foley filled with red liquid, not dark red, more of an evil pink. A hue worse, and Nick wouldn't need to go anywhere at all.

Grissom never moved from his spot, another barrier thwarting the ever-alert Nigel Crane. He'd follow Nick out the door when the SWAT team entered, hand over the duties of guardianship, but not yet. The nurses would ground his CSI; as much as he wanted to be closer, his responsibly lay with his current job now.

"Not fair. I helped, I helped." Crane's non-stop babble, a seething look directed at him every few seconds, another more needy one at the bed hidden behind the partition.

"I need his clothes," Grissom instructed, face straight ahead.

"Baggin' them now," Angelo responded, picking up the bloody remains of Nick's shirt and jeans. "Got his boots as well; they're still salvageable," the nurse commented.

"Good," he replied quietly.

Nigel was like some animal, sniffing around for an advantage, knowing that soon the pound would be here to haul him away and throw him back in his cage. It was the least controlled he'd seen the man and it worried him.

Before he considered option plans, Angelo stood beside him, air of gruffness about him. The man was as chill as one could get, and that made Crane back off, edgy at the eyes that just dared the inmate into sedating him. Angelo glanced at the older man signaling him he'd take care of the janitor if Crane tried to cause trouble before the rescue arrived, a team of people Grissom had hoped would be here by now. Unfortunately, it had been nearly fifteen minutes since the call from Brass and no sign of SWAT.

Grissom risked another look behind him only to see tough-as-nails Louretta pushing Nick's bangs glued by sweat, off of his forehead. The nurse murmured softly over his CSI's ear, and held onto his hand so gently, one finger against the pulse at Nick's wrist.

His throat was suddenly dry, along with his voice. As he found it, struggling to ask another dreaded question, his words were drowned out by the loud crunch of wood and metal.

Grissom whirled his head around at the second 'thwack', the door bursting open, three men clad in protective gear spilled into the infirmary within seconds, their orders clear and concise.

"Everyone! Your hands in the air where we can see them!"

Everyone complied, as three men out of some sort of action television show burst forth, guns, helmets, and face shields, all in tactical positions within the room.

"In the air!"

The staff complied, Grissom lifted his arms, Crane did as well, though he began backing away at frantic speed, his mouth going a mile a minute, making each member of SWAT slightly twitchy, gaining full their attention.

"I saved them! I did! Ask Nick!" the inmate bellowed, two officers cornering him.

Another man advanced rapidly towards the supervisor, weapon pointed ahead, eyes darting from the CSI, to both nurses. "Clear here!" he shouted to his comrade and stepped closer. "You have identification?"

Obviously the criminalist wasn't in prison garb, but procedures needed to be followed, despite Crane's shrieking voice of protest.

"I'm Gil Grissom with the Vegas Crime lab; I'm reaching for my wallet. We have a critically injured member of my team that needs immediate medical attention."

The elite officer cautiously accepted the driver's license, even though Grissom knew it was just a procedure. There was a reason why they had been ordered here. After a pause he nodded.

Grissom tried to ignore the ruckus behind him. Two men rushed the inmate, throwing him to the floor, securing his hands with a sort of twist tie, the man screaming the entire time.

"Nooooo! Nick! Leave me alone, I saved them. Got them here. I need to talk to him!"

Both officers had the smaller man pinned to the floor, one communicating in his two-way radio about their status, the large Goliath of a man in front of Grissom, had already cleared the two nurses.

"This is Bravo Team, we have secured the friendlies, readying for evac."

Grissom waited impatiently for the relay of information to be completed. "Is the floor secured? Can we leave now?"

The burly man halted questions with his hand. "We have a single path back down the stairs; the whole wing is not verified. We're here to get you out and then we'll re-group to recover and contain this level."

"Fine," Grissom replied gruffly, meeting the rolling bed that Angelo and Louretta were pushing towards them.

The spitfire of a nurse bullied her way over. "Where are the EMTs?"

"Medical personnel are awaiting outside, we're here to escort you out," the commander communicated.

Louretta wasted no time. "Then let's get going. Out of my way, we can't wait for you to get your act together." She rolled the stretcher past the bewildered officer, Grissom hot on her heels.

The rush to get out the door was halted by the officers; a few more members out in the halls had kept them from exiting the room. Grissom grabbed a hold of the bedrail with one hand and snaked his other through to rest on his CSI's shoulder.

The Leader took point. "You do exactly as I say, remain right behind me. Don't touch or say anything."

Grissom nodded, the caregivers on each side of the bed, ready to move. The other two officers had restrained the inmate and shoved him forward, obviously not sure where to deposit him, pushing him along on their trek.

After way too much time they barreled down the hallway, the officers with night vision goggles appearing from nowhere now firmly attached. The thunder of their charge down the hall, loud and deafening to his ears. Grissom didn't know how he kept up, his poor mangled knee a distant memory, the pain ignored. Their warpath down hallways kept any inmate away, hidden among the confines of the now totally dark building.

Grissom didn't look forward to their romp down four flights of stairs, thanking the heavens that Nick was hopped up on a heavy amount of morphine so he wouldn't feel every bump, jerk and twist of the journey. Even one of the SWAT members grabbed a hold of the bed, maneuvering it to soften the abusive jaunt through the cramped stairwell not set up for such desperate measures. Then again any reaction other then the deadly silence of the ill man and the frantic expression of the nurse would have been much more eagerly accepted.

Grissom did whatever he could to maintain human contact, his other hand securing the sheets over Nick's still form.

Political posturing was not her forte; then again all Sara needed to do was voice her 'strong' suspicions to Conrad Ecklie and by some miracle the man had somehow wrangled the two physicians into going downtown. The haughty staff members voiced this substantial opinions, a lot of hot air and mock disgust, though Dr. Stanfield 's protests grew silent at a sight that made all of them scramble.

After half an hour, the squad sent in to secure the missing criminalists was coming out of the building with their objectives. The geeky researcher, who had not realized the seventies were decades past, fell suddenly silent when the EMTs swarmed the huddled group that exited the hospital.

It was impossible to get too close, but the spectacle garnered all sorts of attention. Gil Grissom followed the blurry motion of police and medical workers towards a waiting ambulance that had been summoned once communication had been established and the Vegas Crime Lab staff had been located.

Sara pushed past people, a force to be reckoned with when need be, her co-workers close behind, but she called out to her boss and friend, then covered her mouth quickly.

Grissom looked a wreck; haggard, in pain, cuts and a bruise marred his face. Dark blue eyes filled with something so foreign…it was fear, absolute terror, and something else. His steadfast objectivity was totally absent. Sara caught a fleeting glance at the whirlwind of the stretcher, Nick a blurry motion before being loaded up quickly and taken away. Snippets of information in between the buzz of way too many people.

She latched on to the more terrifying parts; sky high blood pressure, rapid pulse, severe blood loss, and the absolute need to get to an ER.

Sara Sidle felt no satisfaction at the successful rescue, no solace that the possible perpetrators had been hauled off for questioning. No mere words from the man she sought reassurance from. Instead, Sara and the others were left in the dust and melee of a situation totally out of their hands. Before they could determine who would drive, the walking paradox of Nigel Crane had been brought over towards one of the vans to be secured until the rest of the prison was under lock down.

The Graveyard shift collectively froze as the man huffed and taunted to the world his instrumental services in rescuing the two criminalists. His eyes met those of the nerd squad, and he grinned in triumph.

"Nick knows! He knows whom he can count on. Who stood by him, who saved him." Crane lunged at the dust kicked up by the now absent ambulance, its sirens blared in the distance. "Nick! Nick!" he bellowed.

The man was shoved to the ground, squirming and fighting as two strong sets of hands pinned him there.

"Can we get this guy to shut up?" the burly Captain who had led the raid requested, peeved at having to deal with the mentally disturbed man.

Sara stared at Crane, his glasses ready to fall off his face, eyes that strained to see the last remnants of the rescue. "He needed me. Nick counted on me, and I delivered. He owes me, owes me everything."

Catherine put a hand on the female CSI's shoulder and guided her away from the insane babble. Warrick had already stormed away, sickened by the mantra, ready to release his frustrations on the man who had terrorized his best friend for weeks and in the silent months that had followed. Then somehow wreaked havoc upon his friend once again.

They divided up into two vehicles, all four of them hushed by the lunacy of the situation, still clueless as to what had transpired inside the Institute, a couple of them almost wishing they didn't know.

* * *

A/N: Will TRY to post from now every two days. I want to have this done before the season ender. 


	20. Chapter 20

Beyond the busy strip of Vegas, the neon lights, noise of slot machines, and the sleazy underbelly of naked flesh that taunted at every corner, miles away lay desert dunes; particles of sand that slowly eroded the earth. It was this dust that would remain long after the newest luxury hotel or multimillion dollar resort. Every tourist knew about money and dirt, but it wasn't until you lived here a while that you learned about the hidden oasis nestled just past Lake Mead. Quiet hills, fresh air, and wooded areas that made all the hustle and bustle a distant memory.

The SUV had been parked about one mile away, a light knapsack rested on each man's back, bottle of water shared between them. It was still early morning, a slight chill was in the air, but it promised to be sunny. This was just a day trip; the hikers carried only a couple of sketchbooks, two pairs of binoculars, and each of them had a digital camera and the eagerness to explore.

Nick led the way with the older man slightly behind him. Grissom peered at his handbook, flipping through several pages and then pointed excitedly. "I say that's a Palm Warbler."

Nick's long strides brought him right next to his supervisor, binoculars over his eyes, adjusting the focus of the lens. "No way, Man. Palm Warblers are rare in Nevada; I've never seen one ever in the past few years." Even though the odds were against such a discovery, the young man hoped it was true. He searched for just the right markings on the bird.

Disappointed, he let the heavy device sag to his chest, moving the strap around his neck. He shook his head. "Nah, wrong color."

Grissom scrunched up his face, the light breeze making his jacket flutter. "No, it's just like the picture," he said pointing to his trusty guidebook.

Nick smiled and took a moment to stretch stiff muscles; a now familiar deep ache plagued him. He bit his lip annoyed. He'd even put a heating pad on it last night in hopes that it wouldn't flare up on this outing.

Grissom noted his discomfort. "Want to head back?"

Nick shook his head and instead took off his hat to mess with his new cut hair and slapped it back down on his head. "No. I'm fine, we planned this weeks ago, and I'm going stir crazy rehabbing at home."

Grissom arched an eyebrow and said nothing; the obvious change was a relief. Nick looked at his watch. "If we hurry, we can get to one of my favorite spots, under this cool old tree. Lot of different type of hawks over there. I might be able to add a drawing."

The supervisor wiped at the perspiration that dotted his forehead. "I think we shouldn't venture any further, plus I know that's a Palm Warbler. I just double-checked the guide."

Nick didn't know whether to laugh or be offended. "Um, Gris. I know what they look like and I'm telling' ya. You're wrong."

"I've studied the markings, Nick. Did you take a look at its neck?"

He blinked, slightly confused and lifted the binoculars to his eyes even though he knew that his boss was wrong. This was the man's first bird watching trip and was already challenging him over a species of bird that he'd kill to be able to add to his book. Something told him to double-check and yep, it was still a normal looking sparrow.

"It's not a Palm. Not even close." Nick squinted as the sun began to come up.

Grissom sighed and looked at the younger man slightly annoyed. "Are we going to begin arguing again?"

Nick gawked at him. "Man, I'm not starting a fight, but you're wrong.  
You're an expert on bugs, I know my birds."

"Nicky."

There it was- that tone again, and he began to rub at the painful spot on his back; the throbbing had gotten worse and now it began to sear his muscles.

"I told you we should be heading back. You know better than to push yourself too hard," Grissom was reprimanding him as he turned his back and began walking away.

Nick felt his jaw clench. "I'm fine." Though the pain was now almost unbearable and his legs began to buckle under his weight.

"Hey, wait," he said as he moved one foot forward and collapsed to the ground, his whole back in agony.

Grissom walked over and knelt in front of him. "Are you really fine, Nick?"

He felt tears slide down his face and a white hot poker twist in his spine. "Yeah," he croaked even though he knew he wasn't...far from it.

His supervisor pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Well then, I'll just write down we found that Palm Warbler, since we're both being so honest."

He didn't say anything, didn't utter a single word as Grissom scribbled away in the book and began following the trail back to the car. "I'm a terrible teacher, Nick," he said, never looking back.

Nick wanted to ask for help, his hand weakly seeking out the other man, but his words were lost in the garble and gasping for breath.

"Griss'mm," he slurred, a bright light over his head, a flurry of hands prodding and touching him.

He groaned when he was rolled to his side, a litany of voices, questions and orders floated all around him. An oxygen mask had replaced the tubes delivering him O2, his voice obscured by the heavy plastic. Nick shivered; a mere sheet covered him from the waist down, and his need to vomit was overwhelming.

"We need a cross panel and CBC. Get a portable ultrasound in here."

He felt his arm get squeezed tightly by something he couldn't identify. He turned his heavy head weakly, blinking confusedly. Arms and hands swam in and out of view; a rapid beeping noise assailed his ears from behind him somewhere. Nick's sounds of discomfort brought a lady in front of his face, her expression somewhat blurry with all the brightness around him.

"Mr. Stokes, please try to relax. We're running some tests on you and giving you some medication that will make you feel better."

Nick sucked in another painful breath, shaking his head.

"Latest set of vitals?" a man's voice demanded from the left of him, a freezing metal object now resting on his chest that moved several more times, each new sensation making him even colder.

"Heart rate 140, BP 180 over 120, resps 88 percent on full O2," a foreign accented voice replied.

Voices all around, four people, no five? Nick didn't understand what was going on, but he knew he didn't want any part of it.

"I need that CBC! I want to know his exact red blood count. His hemoglobin and hematocrit have got to be down the tubes. Why the hell did they let this guy bleed out for so long?"

People talking all around him like he wasn't even there. Again!

Nick tried to move in any direction, but felt things burn, and pinch and pull. His head dropped down, panting into the mask, a hand on his shoulder pressed down on him.

"Soon you'll feel very warm, Mr. Stokes. Please remain still," the same heavily accented voice told him.

_Try staying put when strange things were inserted where they didn't belong_, he wanted to bark back, but all that came out were garbled moans.

A man with a beard and dark hair leaned over his line of sight, not that he had a clear view of anything except white hot light and blurry images of people. Something about the way the guy loomed over him made his breath hitch in his throat.

"We're going to do an ultrasound. You might feel something funny, but it's just the jelly. Once the morphine kicks in just let yourself relax." The man shifted away his voice booming again. "You get those meds on board yet?"

Nick felt himself hyperventilating, his ears echoing with loud white noise, fading in and out. He hurt...everywhere and all he wanted to do was curl up and get away from everything.

"Transfusing the first unit."

"Dr. Foxx, results are back on his CBC."

"Finally. Get another unit of blood set up, and tell the OR we need four more."

The words just blurred together as his eyes drifted shut, another prick to the crook his arm, more urgent voices, but it all just disappeared into a haze of sunshine.

He covered his eyes against the glare; the shimmer from the desert made it impossible to judge distance. He looked around; the heat was unbearable, tiny droplets of sweat poured down his face, his grey t-shit clung to his body. His mouth felt like it had been stripped away by sandpaper, and considering the barren landscape he didn't doubt the idea.

Nick wiped at his forehead, his palm coming away wet, and adjusted his ball cap. Where the Hell was he? He felt a familiar tug at his neck and realized that his binoculars weighed heavily there and he picked them up, nearly dropping them when his fingertips met scorching hot black plastic. He hissed, shaking his fingers, trying to wet them with a parched tongue.

He pulled way blistered fingers and stared. What the Hell?

Nick felt light-headed and pulled his shirt out from his jeans and waved the damp fabric pointlessly in the air, wiping his sticky face with the hem. He looked up at the clear blue sky that extended miles upwards, no real visible ceiling. He squinted from the harsh rays of the beating sun and looked straight ahead and started walking. No real direction, but it felt like the sensible thing to do.

It was a lot more tedious and exhausting than he thought. His legs felt like they were moving through water; it was a strain, an effort to make any progress and soon after only a few feet he was barely able to breathe, his chest heaving from thin air. The orange fire in the sky was over his head, relentless, and his face blazed with sunburn, despite the brim of his hat.

Nick looked around in search of anything; no cacti, rock or shelter, just endless miles of dust and sand.

He leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, feeling the strong need to remove his shirt; it was a suffocating layer of protection that he could do without, but if he peeled it away, he'd surely roast his skin, and cause even more problems. Slightly dizzy now, he thought about simply taking a break, but knew if he just waited around he'd be dead.

He pulled himself to his full height, face flushed, neck and back soaked from sweat, when he heard a ringing. Flustered, he patted down his pockets and fished out a cell phone with great difficulty. The buzzing device was wedged deep in his pockets, the denim making it difficult to extract.

Finally, breathing harshly from the effort, he placed the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he spoke franticly his voice ragged.

"Nick?"

He closed his eyes. "Grissom?"

"Yeah, Nick."

He wanted to laugh. "Where are you?"

"I'm right in front of you."

"What?" he stuttered out, scanning the horizon like a dumbass. "Gris, this isn't funny."

"We came out here together, Nick. I don't know how we got separated."  
Grissom's voice sounded so much farther way, the connection on the fritz.

"Grissom, I'm lost out here," Nick huffed in the phone, his dried out lips cracking.

"I'm looking at the most beautiful Peregrine Falcon, Nicky. Its head markings are amazing." His boss's voice was filled with such awe, his enthusiasm so rare.

"Grissom, man. Where are you?" Nick panted.

"Use your binoculars if you have to, but I'm really right in front of you."

Nick stared at the plastic cooking against his chest. "You're out here?" he spoke into the phone.

"Yes, Nick, I am. You should really see this falcon."

Nick debated about the binoculars. "Gris, we're out in the desert, no way the Peregrine is out here, man. It's not a desert bird." Laughing to himself about the debate, he grit his teeth and grabbed the binoculars with his left hand ignoring the way it fried away a layer of skin and glanced though them.

As he waited for the whiteness of the bedrock to calm without his sight, he saw his supervisor within the lens and he dropped them, the device thudding against his chest.

"See?" Grissom explained. "I'm right here. You just didn't choose to find me. Different Modus operandi, Nicky," the man's voice explained in his ear. "Did you forget what I told you?"

"Grissom," he breathed heavily, the ground wavering back and forth in front of him.

"Why don't you come over here, Nick? You can add this specimen to your book."

Something kept him there, he didn't move because, well, because it was stupid and preposterous. "Grissom, I can't go over there... you're... you're not there."

"How do you know Nick if you don't try?" The man's voice was hollow, almost hurt. "How are we to build that foundation?"

Nick was shaking his head, his vision faltered, not a graying, more like a white out. Everything became so stark and sharp in hue, nearly blinding.

"You don't want to see this hawk?"

Nick was on the ground, mouth full of dirt, his limbs numb. "There are no ...hawks... out here," he drawled before everything went black.

He was really, really cold, his entire back one solid sheet of ice. Something was attached to his finger, and he tried to wiggle it.

More voices drifted in and out behind him, a few in front as well, and his finger? Well, it didn't want to seem to move very much.

He heard another beeping noise, slightly more subdued, though it could be from the fact that it felt like someone had stuffed his ears with cotton. His eyelids were glued together something fierce, and he could barely move his head, but something...elastic snagged at his hair.

With an effort a slight yelp forced its way from his throat, while his eyes peeled opened all gluey. His first visual assault was another light, like a halo, a face peered down at him covered by a mask similar to those used by the DNA techs. Older face, designer eye glasses and the purest green set of irises. Not fierce like Warrick's, but paler.

"Mr. Stokes."

It sounded like a bad tape recording from one of those old answering machines.

"Hmmmprhh," he replied if you could call it that.

No, it was a green mask, not white like the Lab's, hair hidden by some sort of cap. Nick's eyes darted back and forth; it felt like his floppy hair had been pulled back into a similar knit covering. Though his finger still didn't really respond, the clip was bothersome somehow.

"Mr. Stokes, have you ever been intubated before?" Same faceless person, though the greenish eyes did seem kind.

He shook his head, or so he thought.

"We're going to insert a tube down your throat." He must have reacted, though he wasn't sure how, his body was numb. "Don't worry, you'll be asleep by then. You're in the OR, about to undergo an operation to repair a tear in your kidney. Don't worry, you're in good hands."

"BP is 200 over 130, Heart rate 150," a female voice warned, no way to hide the implication.

That didn't sound very good. His eyes flicked over to the voice in the far corner, but his eyesight couldn't peer far enough.

"You should be feeling very sleepy soon. Just count backwards starting with 100. Can you do that for me?"

Sure he could. "Ninety-nine," he rasped.

Something tugged at his mind, should he be concerned that the worried voice was still relaying more information? Something about a low hematocrit, but he had already forgotten about the number ninety-eight, and had moved on to twenty. Then his lids became too heavy and the breeze from Lake Mead was upon his face.

Nick stood there, staring at the rows of trees, all in full bloom. He viewed everything through a dark filter, the sunglasses that he bought with Warrick, a pair he paid way too much money for, perched on the bridge of his nose. He turned to his left and watched his supervisor stare off into the distance. Nick followed his gaze at a worn out trail in front of them. He cocked his head to one side and looked to his right and to his left to find them in the middle of some sort of carved out walkway.

Puzzled, he searched around for any familiar landmarks and found that every branch, every leaf that littered the ground look exactly the same. He wore one of his dark denim jackets, black-T shirt and his gloves that he wore mostly at night. With a tiny grin he looked down to see his trusty binoculars. He tested them out, placed them in front of his face and played with the focus.

Every direction was identical, branches, canopy above, all sort of this montage that could be any plain wooded area. The breeze though was nice on his face, very refreshing and he allowed his lungs to expand with the crispest of sweet air. If he listened intently, he could pretend that the water along the lake sort of kissed the shoreline while the tiniest waves lapped the shore.

Then he felt his body relax and opened his eyes to see his supervisor look at him inquisitively.

"Which way?"

Nick wet his lips, pondering things. Nope everything looked the same, though he'd been here dozens of times, this wasn't exactly along his normal route. Didn't occur to him to ask how they got here.

"I say left," he pointed.

"Why?" Grissom asked, mainly curious sounding.

Nick examined the direction he chose and wondered a bit as well. "No real reason just a gut feeling." He shrugged. "Just seems right."

The light glinted off of the older man's glasses, lips pursed to say something, then he turned the opposite direction. "I think we should go right."

Nick looked down the exact same path, almost a mirror image of the one he chose. He cleared his throat, Adam's apple moving up and down as he swallowed. "And your reason?"

His boss tilted his head, that brilliant mind calculating. "Based on the odds and the mathematical statistics, right is normally the route to take when faced with a fifty-fifty decision."

Nick felt his lips curl. "I've never heard of that statistic before."

Grissom shrugged. "Doesn't mean that the ratio isn't true. Number wise, it's the most correct choice."

He felt the urge to resist, and studied the path, his mind thinking  
back to any text book or study that might have lent credence to that rationale. Grissom stared at him, waiting for the younger man to agree.

Nick looked along the path that seemed in the back of his head to be the best solution, based on nothing more than a tingle along his senses. Then ran all the possible reasons that his superior had given him and scanned that direction. Grissom was waiting for agreement, or an argument.

Nick worked his jaw back and forth and smiled. "Let's go straight."

Grissom looked at the thickly wooded area, and then back at both worn down paths, the mashed down earth indications of varied use. The man sort of made an odd sound. "Okay."

Nick wasn't sure to be shocked or not, but decided that wrestling the reason why was a waste of time. He nodded. "Good."

The trek was more difficult; tree roots jutted out ready to trip them. The pace was much slower, the terrain rougher, but...it didn't matter. The two men hoofed it past low hanging limbs, avoided slight lurches in uneven ground and ducked a few furry forest creatures. Grissom would glance at him every once in a while and Nick would notice a slight grin on his face. He felt his cheeks twist a smile of his own. Then right before they got to a clearing, his supervisor held up his hand, binoculars at his face.

"See that?"

Nick grabbed his own set seeking out what had his boss so animated.  
"What?" he asked with a hush.

"Green tailed-Towhee," Grissom said in a hush.

Nick squinted through his lens and shook his head, laughing. "Nah.  
Just a finch. Got green feathers though."

"You sure?" Grissom asked skeptically.

Nick felt his good spirits dwindle and let his binoculars drop as he gave his boss a distasteful look.

Grissom checked out the bird one more time, adjusting the lens intently, then pulled the instrument from his face. He chewed on his bottom lip. "Wrong markings?"

Nick seemed bewildered but nodded. "Yeah, the location should be on the lower tail feathers, and um...they're much smaller, and their beaks are..."

Grissom held up his hand to cut him off. "I trust your judgment, Nicky.  
Just got carried away in the moment. I was wrong." His boss stood there with such naked honesty. "I've been selfish, haven't been fair to you. I didn't learn a valuable lesson, but I'm trying to now."

He didn't know what to do, so he stood there smiling. Those words, they sounded so familiar.

Grissom cleared his throat this time. "Should we keep moving?"

Nick didn't say a word, but nodded. Grissom marched further into the woods and for once Nick was content with the man leading the way.

Next part saturday


	21. Chapter 21

He didn't feel the breeze from Lake Mead, not the overwhelming dry heat of the desert, any sounds of woods. He tried to wet his lips and found it difficult to move a numb tongue. Someone had stuffed the inside of his mouth with mothballs, or worse, stale sponges, soaking up any spittle.

Little sounds of air escaped his throat as he scrunched up a face that felt like waxed paper replaced his skin. His eyes, well they had been sealed shut, icky and scratchy, but after a couple of minutes he managed to pry them open, closing them again quickly.

It was a dim-lit room, and he had the oddest sensation that he was floating. He heard a soft laugh inside his head for some reason and then his hearing began to work. The weird humming of the room faded out to more particular sounds.

Beeping somewhere above his head, and a pump...no, pumping sounds. Nick could barely move his head, so drained of energy that it sort of flopped over, his eyes focused on something wrapped around his left arm accompanied by a tight sensation.

A blood pressure cuff expanded. He blinked suddenly, recognizing these sounds, these sights. His eyes traced an IV from the crook of his arm and followed the tubing to a bag of red fluid.

Blood.

He had needed a fill up. That was scary.

An annoying clippie thing was attached to his pointer finger; he grunted, sounds merely a scratchy moan, as his head took a long time to roll to his other side.

Another IV, a bag of clear solution inserted into the back of his hand, right arm wrapped in bandages. He wasn't flat on his back; his bed was angled slightly up, inside a tiny cubicle, curtains to each side of him, an empty plastic chair in the corner. The more he allowed his eyes to remain open, battling slumber, the more dizzy and sick to his stomach he became. Though he recognized things, waking up in a dark, vacant hospital room, literately tied to tubes, and too disorientated to think, was enough to make anyone just a little upset.

'Someone' must have been paying attention because as soon as the onset of his distress began, soft footsteps approached and a lady checked several machines and readouts that must have signaled his current alarm. The nondescript nurse leaned over the bed, and spoke in a very soft voice.

"The pain too much, Mr. Stokes? You're on a high dose now, and you're not due for more for another half an hour, but I can get the attending to give you a small amount. Then see about adjusting the next round for you."

For some reason his mind flashed to be deposited along a disgusting floor, the image of a door shutting closed and the world crushing him afterwards. He let out a tiny sound; his hand tried to grab air, but all it did was jerk along the bed. That beeping noise jumped a bit, and the woman other sensed something, or read a readout that wasn't very positive.

"It's okay, Mr. Stokes. You're doing fine. I know this must be very confusing for you."

He didn't want to be coddled; he just wanted to know what was going on,  
And the mere struggle with everything began to make that annoying noise increase, not to mention a white hum in his ears. The damn tubes in his nose grew more annoying and he really wanted to yank them out. They were odd---the whole room was strange. It was silent besides the soft drone of machines, and the sensations of numbed areas of his mind.

He felt detached and his auditory sensations very muffled. A tight feeling began inside his chest and he struggled to even wiggle the dead weight of his limbs. Why the hell was he feeling so freaked out?

The nurse looked ready to call for reinforcements, but a commotion around the entrance to his hideaway caused the woman to look behind her. Nick heard distinct arguing, but was too preoccupied with the graying out of his vision to pay it much bother.

"Sir, we told you visiting hours were over."

That got his attention, and Nick's heavy breathing abated somewhat when someone hobbled their way in. A man using crutches maneuvered between both nurses and came towards his bedside.

"And I said I wasn't going anywhere until he woke up."

That was Grissom's voice and the man appeared before his line of vision within seconds of recognizing that tone. No way were the nurses going to persuade that man from doing something or get in his way.

"I'll go get Dr. Bernard, it's okay," the first nurse addressed the one Nick hadn't even seen yet. "No harm in his friend visiting while we get his dosage adjusted."

Everything buzzed around as Nick waited for his boss to get near the rail; his throat felt so raw, vocal cords uncooperative. Queasy stomach flip-flopped the longer he remained awake.

Grissom balanced as he fought the plastic chair and eased himself down, sliding it closer towards the ill man. "Don't try to talk yet, Nick."

It didn't stop him though; gravel and sawdust, but he managed a few hoarse words, swallowing several times. "W-what h-happened?"

"You were injured very badly."

Grissom spoke to him, so frankly and honestly, it almost scared the hell out of him. The supervisor must have sensed it and both hands gripped the steel rail. "You're going to be fine. Just relax, give yourself time to mend."

He remembered what happened to him, mostly, a few gaps in the details, it was just his mind was a sluggish as his abused body. "'Mm ok-ay?'

Grissom wasn't sure exactly what Nick wanted to know, but the arrival of the ICU nurse saved him the effort. She pulled out a syringe and brought it over to the IV port when Nick's hand lurched forward to touch her arm.

The caregiver held off for a second and Nick peered intently at her, then at his boss. Grissom sort of understood, and honing his new skills of trying to place himself in the other man's position he took a guess.

"I think Nick would like to know what exactly is going on with his injury and treatment before you knock him out again."

He looked up at Grissom in semi-shock, but tried to clear his throat, his voice grated. "P-please," he requested, his twang heavy.

"You really should just get some sleep until your doctor comes by to explain everything to you." She was sweet, so syrupy that she oozed taffy. Not really, but that was the mental image Nick couldn't shake.

"Just tell me," his voice a buzz saw. He wanted to spit, his mouth felt so foul.

"He just wants to be told the facts about what is being done to him and why," Grissom spoke up.

Nick wanted to pinch himself to make sure this wasn't another dream.  
It was possible, he felt so damn loopy, but the rumba in his belly told him otherwise.

"This is Rebecca, Nick. She's been with you since you were brought to recovery and here. You're in the Intensive Care Unit," Grissom explained, obviously giving the nurse a springboard of sorts.

The debilitated criminalist waffled between both people, but rested his eyes along the nurse.

Rebecca fell for that 'look' and smiled warmly to try to set him at ease. "Okay. You had a laceration to your right kidney that also slightly injured one of the major blood vessels. A surgeon went in to repair it. You also received some stitches to your arm to repair the damage from having them pulled out. Mild concussion to top it all off."

His head hurt, a ringing now in his ears, but he nodded that he understood.

"You're hooked up to machines that automatically monitor your vitals every twenty minutes. We'll be taking your temperature as well to make sure you're not getting an infection. One of your IVs contains normal saline, and hefty antibiotics. The other one is just to give you one more unit of blood according to your doctor's instructions."

Nick fiddled with his nasal cannula as the plastic hurt his nose.

"We have you hooked up to a catheter. We expect to see blood in your urine for a few more days, which is normal. In another 24 hours, if your CBC count comes back within the standard range, then you'll go to a step down room."

He mouthed, _how long_, but it only came as a garble.

"You'll be in the hospital a while, Nick. A week or more. All bed rest, but if you just let this lady to her job you'll sleep for the next day or two."

Grissom watched the man huff even in his sad state, but groaned that it was fine, though he mouthed for water.

"Not yet, Nicky. But maybe the nurse might allow you to rinse your mouth out?" The supervisor stared at the sweet lady who at the moment didn't seem very amused about being told how do to her job.

Nick knew that feeling very well and gave the man a half grin. Grissom arched his eyebrow having obviously just developed ways to read his mind. The mental ward must have experimented on them both when they had not been looking.

The mere thought conjured up too many bad thoughts.

The case. Franco. He blinked. _Nigel._

Again his facial expressions were now a map to be interpreted by someone who had always before been clueless.

"We'll talk about what happened when you're feeling better." Grissom answered for him.

"Nooo, tell me n-now," he demanded. Well he sort of mewed, but the Vulcan mind meld that his boss had obviously performed kicked in.

"Franco is alive, although pretty busted up and in another wing of the hospital. Crane is behind bars where he belongs and the rest can wait."

Nick breathed deeply, feeling an odd sensation along his spine...not a good one at that. He sort of nodded with his eyes closed. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You agreeing with me?"

Nick reined his depleted resources and collected a whispered reply.  
"Not arguing."

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.

"St'mach," he murmured.

"I'll tell Rebecca to give you something for that, too."

The hand rested along his arm, and Nick let the blackness take himBefore the nurse came back to send him off to dreamland.

* * *

He had a string of visitors, or so he had been told. Nick fiddled with a tiny hand control; a little push against the button and another small dose of morphine would be his. He had been playing with it for the last hour or so. Considering he'd only been awake for little more than two it was damn frustrating, battling the need to use it.

Again.

A magazine lay on the little table next to his bed, but he could never focus long enough to read the articles. He wasn't allowed to move the elevation of the bed up much more than a few degrees above horizontal.

In fact he was not allowed to move or do anything...nothing. Except lay around on his back, an injured area that began to gnaw away slowly, a little dagger that twisted into his muscles there. His nurse had come in, right on time.

Another vitals check, another set of "How are you doing? How's the pain? Anything I can do for you just ask."

He blew out a breath, his finger itchy to press down, only to spare himself the agony of restlessness. Forced to remain still, unable to move around would make anyone restless, or stir crazy. For him, it made him skittish and on edge.

And damn cranky.

"Why don't you spare yourself the torment and just use it?"

Nick automatically moved upwards in the bed, sending a lighting strike of pain right through him. He grimaced, sucking in a ragged breath before his vision faded from white and then back to normal living color.

"Sorry," Sara said in real sympathy.

Nick wasn't very pleased at being startled so easily, too zoned out to even notice that a visitor had come in. He eased his body back along the bed, sighing heavily. "Been sleepin' for two days now. Just want to be awake more I guess." He was complaining, feeling miserable and wanted to share that for once.

Sara leaned over the railing. "You have to stay here at least another five or six days. Use the PCA machine if you're in pain. It's what it's there for."

He didn't answer her; instead the stiffness of his back grated on him, the sickening ache becoming more pronounced, not quite throbbing though. Once the vibrations got too much, when every slight shift was unbearable he'd squeeze the 'happy' trigger. Sleep was overrated...he'd been doing way too much of it. Though being an invalid was just as terrible a punishment.

His fingers still twitched along the enticing button.

Sara sat quietly waiting for him to respond, or talk...but the silence dragged on and his face became more pinched looking with discomfort.

"You're doing it again, you know."

His eyes drifted over, too suddenly drained to move even his head. He cleared his throat and formed one of his weak smiles, but it sort of faltered into a thin line. "What?"

Sara found his IV very fascinating as her fingers traced the bruised area around it. "Avoidance. The whole buckaroo routine."

He laughed and it hurt, hand along his stomach, tube pulling down below, smarting a bit. "I don't know..."

"Stop it, Nick." Sara's wandering fingers held onto his hand stilling her nervous movements more than sending him comfort. "Just stop," she whispered.

The plastic of the device grew warm in his twitchy hand. "I'm..." He was going to say fine, but then even he couldn't be that hypocritical. "You don't know the types of things I see when my eyes are closed," his voice brittle.

The chair squeaked. "Nightmares?" she asked, fingers lightly stroking a safe patch of skin.

"Darkness," he replied.

"You're not alone, Nick. Never have been," Sara responded, voice reflective at his honesty.

He exhaled, images cascading though his woozy head. It didn't even occur to him to ask more details about the case, his normal distraction for these types of situations. Something weighed heavily upon him, a sensation more bewildering than his condition or answers he normally hungered for.

He'd been snowed under for too long, his brain cells occupied over more important things then self-analysis. Warrick had been there that morning, the first warm hours that his own pain management had been explained to him. The fog from waking up from his drug-induced slumber still ruled his body.

He had stared at the ceiling, tiny dots that he constructed constellations out of. Conversations with his best friend lost, probably full of nonsensical babble. Now, well, now he was really aware of everything that had happened in a blurry set of frightening snapshots.

"It's okay to be scared." Sara's voice brought him back to the room, to the damn bed he was imprisoned in.

His fingers curled then relaxed, a game now with the promise of relief. The hot poker making a re-appearance.

"I know," he drawled, body spasming again. Teeth that ground together.

Nick turned to face Sara, a friend, when a knock echoed in the tiny room. The chance evaporated.

Sara got up to let the next visitor in, and he heard the low male voice of his boss. Bits of conversation popped in his head and he stared at the ceiling knowing that connecting the dots would get real old.

He pressed the button, the machine releasing a blissful cloud of morphine. Nick felt his body get slightly warm, his sore back begin to melt into the hard bed within seconds.

Feet padded along linoleum and a body sat back down into plastic as another presence stood a safe distance from the bed.

"Nick?" Sara's voice sounded so far away.

"You said he was awake now." Grissom's lower cadence drifted along closed eyelids.

"He was." Sara's voice held something he couldn't place.

Then Nick welcomed sweet surrender for the next few hours.

* * *

A/N at my bio 


	22. Chapter 22

"So in essence, the high dosage of Levodopa intensified the paranoia and anxiety levels of both Leon Stoyanov and Robert Patterson. In both men it triggered violent, paranoid laced, homicidal episodes. Each man seemed to have gotten sucked into some violent fantasy world based around the delusions and anxiety they had suffered. Then each manifested itself in new forms in the room with Kincaid and after another dosage meant to fuel such violence at you guys."

Sara's voice distracted him, his mind following aspects of the case, anything to shake his growing edginess. She had moved 'the chair' over to the left, where he was fitfully laying on his side. He had a fistful of bed sheet, his PCA control lay against the rail where he could reach it without stretching. His fingers curled around the thin cotton, wrinkling the fabric where he constantly messed with it.

"Stanfield slipped it in their nightly medications," Nick stated, waiting for confirmation.

Sara sighed. "Yeah. He got wind of all of Kincaid's inquiries about certain inmates, Sheldon Tanner and Joseph Brighten especially. When he pulled those patients, along with Leon and Robert from his care, he found out from one of the orderlies who saw him setting up his video camera for recording the session that night."

Nick shifted his legs slowly, grimacing at the after shocks of the movement, balling up the bed sheet in his hand reflexively. His fourth day in bed and he was ready to crawl out of the damn thing in order to get outside the same four walls. He held off from his usage of the 'juice machine' as much as possible, but the longer he was forced to just lay around, the harder it became not to let the pain get to him or more so, the sheer dullness consume him.

"We found the tape in Stanfield's safety deposit box," Grissom chimed in, his only contribution to the conversation thus far these types of tiny added details from the case.

Nick nodded. "When did he get the equipment?'

"After the inmates were subdued. It got smashed on the floor and scattered. The guards and Angelo were so caught up in the fray, no one noticed anything in the dark, and they simply got out and left," Sara filled in for him.

"Soooo, Stanfield came by and cleaned up afterwards?" Nick prodded. He shifted his body slightly and it earned him another reward of pain along his spine; this time he couldn't suppress a grunt.

He felt his toes curl, digging into the mattress, his face fraught.

"Nick..."

"I'm fine," he blurted out not even sure who the voice had belonged to. He buried his head in his arm, embarrassed but still irritated.

"Sorry," he whispered not even sure who had said his name in the tone he had now come to despise.

Not waiting for another foray into matters of the heart and mind he swallowed thickly. "Why?" He looked up at two sets of eyes. "For what?"

Sara cleared her throat, playing along for now, ignoring his little outburst. "Money. Power. Fame."

Nick rested both his hands carefully on the railing to lean further along his body, almost onto his stomach. His eyes drifted towards the floor, noticing the tiny dots that made up the patterns there. Something else to count later on.

"He had a connection at The New England Journal of Medicine. All of his lab data was correct for the patients he had actually used it on with success. All the bad reactions of the patients, where his drug didn't get positive results, Stanfield substituted names with bogus ones like Tanner and Brighten who could still be verified as patients at the Institute. Then, with the fabricated data, he paid off at least one staff member from the journal to overlook those phony aspects of the paper. With his reputation, no one would be the wiser."

Nick shook his head; how many inmates and staff members had been put in danger for one man's hubris? How many had died? "He did all this by himself." Nick looked up. "One guy?"

Grissom arched an eyebrow. "Dr. Rhodes didn't want to be bothered by anything that tarnished the reputation of his Institute and turned a blind eye. It was Stanfield who broke Kincaid's neck...the man had a faint pulse that the orderlies didn't detect. He also used his knowledge of the computer systems to rig the disruption which actually controlled both the security measures and the power grid." Grissom's voice softened in near admiration and awe. "He helped develop the system. Made it possible to cover his tracks."

"That little mouse of a man actually got his hands dirty. That weasel snapped Kincaid's vertebrae," Nick wondered out loud still amazed by the man's ego and God complex. "He gave Ivan another dose of loopy pills when we came back. Hoping to injure or kill one of us," Nick theorized.

Grissom shrugged. "He never thought the investigation would be as thorough or that we'd wouldn't just collect the circumstantial evidence and implicate the inmates." The entomologist sat back. "Then he got desperate, and well...we all know how it all spiraled out of control."

Nick's eyes fell on the steel rail, another manifestation of his cage. It wasn't hard to lapse like this; his point of sight stared straight along the steel, then up his IV pole, another tube stuck inside him... this one in a vein. Not to mention the one attached in another place, every little fidget tugging, reminding him how tethered he was to everything. It was so overwhelming at times.

He felt his hand clutch the sheet and secure it upwards, the ends mangled by his constant fiddling. It was all dawning on him, all at once and he curled himself tighter into a ball, a flare of pain ripping along his back.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, sort of excusing his visitors away. He didn't want them around right now. Even when he 'was' awake, he constantly fought between wanting someone to talk to, and wanting nothing more than to sink back into the ocean of numbness.

Right now he was far from deadened, and yet from behind closed eyelids he could smell the must and mildew of that damn storage closet and his fingers balled into a fist on instinct.

"I...um...I've got to get back to the Lab. I've got to meet with Catherine about a case." Sara fumbled so rarely and for some reason it made him want to shrink back further under his blanket.

Another flare of pain reminded him that his little device offering entry into oblivion was only inches from his fingertips.

"I'll be back tomorrow," Sara told him with a quick touch to his shoulder and the sound of her footsteps leaving followed.

Nick didn't feel like staying in his current direction and began the tedious task of rolling over onto his back. The motion of turning made his vision swim in a sea of white. Then putting weight back on the incision made the room spin, his eyes closing automatically to block it away.

He was frozen; fists balled up and intertwined with his covers, his pallor blanching with every passing second.

"Nick, you should really try to lay still as much as possible."

His hands shook, another set of stitches pulled along the laceration on his right arm. Nick felt his fingers dig into his palms, but his ragged and torn fingernails did little to the flesh. He could still feel the wooden splinters tear and split under his desperate clawing.

"Take slow breaths, Nicky."

He slammed his hand against the steel rail. "You try being on your back this long!" he snapped.

The controller to his pain medication fell to the floor, clattering on the tile. Nick breathed heavily, fuming. He stared at the miserable ceiling, then jerked his head right back at Grissom. Off white privacy curtains loomed too closely and it filled him with contempt at feeling these old flare-ups all over again...it'd been almost a year. A damn year!

Nick's fist lashed out at the bed rail again, IV pinching his skin with the jarring sensation.

Grissom shifted in his seat, adjusting a new set of eyeglasses. The normal silence drifted back into place. Just like old times.

"I'm sorry, Nick. I don't know what it's like to be confined to a hospital room like this. Or even with..." The words hung in the air.

Nick pulled at the front of his hospital gown to alleviate a round of labored breathing. He had somehow wound the garment tightly around his chest with his increased restlessness. Nick reached out for the PCA pump control, forgetting momentarily that he had just knocked it away. He looked down at it dejectedly, his supervisor following his gaze. With a bit of difficulty Grissom picked up the controller and draped it over the steel rail.

"Dr. Bernard suggested that because of your medical history that they could add a sedative to your medications to help relieve your... anxiety."

"He suggest that or did you?" Nick rested both hands on his chest, trying to keep them still.

"Your physician did. Though I might add that I agree with his recommendation."

Nick looked at the other man. "You tell him that already?"

His boss seemed so unreadable, yet his voice, the quiet response, told Nick everything he needed. "No, I didn't."

The Texan allowed his mind to drift away, imagining the breeze from Lake Mead fresh on his cheeks. He swallowed. "You wanted to, though."

"I think it's a good decision. The bleeding just stopped in your kidney, but you still need to be monitored for another three days. Same precautions. No sitting, no moving. And Nick, even before last year, you're very much a get up and go type of guy."

'But he didn't'. It was such inconceivably small thing, but... it stood for a lot.

"You going to tell me about Nigel?"

He said it like a question and left it vague so that his supervisor would be forced to choose which aspect to discuss.

"What do you want to know?"

Nick grinned slightly; a safe response. Grissom had to be a great poker player.

"He's back in the ward, of course, and undergoing another psych evaluation."

Nick rubbed at the stubble on his chin and cheeks, the hairs coarse under his fingers; he was due for a shave later today. "Why?"

Grissom leaned forward somewhat thoughtful. "Certain of his actions were very questionable."

Nick could see the red light bounce off those geeky plastic lens, eyes taunting. "He relished every second of it." His voice trailed off, repulsed at how much they 'owed' the little troll. "But he saved both of us."

It sickened him to the core, having slight appreciation towards a man who lived a life terrorizing others.

"Nigel Crane took every opportunity he had to try to gain and control power. He didn't do anything that didn't grant him an advantage. He waged a battle of mental warfare," Grissom countered.

Nick glanced over at the out of reach tray for a glass of water.

"In his mind what he was doing was helpful."

Nick found the lever that controlled the elevation of his bed and pressed on it to increase the angle at which he rested to a slightly more upright position.

"All his actions were carefully orchestrated. He helped when he thought it would allow him to exploit you later." The supervisor shifted in his chair, a bit apprehensive at the younger man shifting around so much.

He could feel a sharp sensation along his back and with every degree he moved forward the dull ache became a sharper burst. "Nigel could... have left me... to die." Nick stopped the movement of the bed. "He could have let Ivan kill you."

"No, he just locked you in a broom closet knowing full well what he was doing," Grissom injected but didn't budge as the patient struggled for the glass he was still unsuccessfully trying to grab.

Nick swallowed, holding his breath as he reached for the water glass, moving forwards, fingers still way out of reach. He grit his teeth, grunting from the effort. The image of a door shutting in his face and plunging his world into total darkness flashed through his head. He dug his right palm into the mattress and pushed himself harder, his only reward terrible pain that tore through him.

He fell back to the bed exhausted, arching his body away from the torment.

"Nigel was --- was tryin' to punish me," Nick gasped. He fitfully wrapped his arms around himself as he rode out the fall out of his efforts.

"Why do you think that?" His boss's voice drifted through the buzzing in his head.

Nick squeezed his eyes shut, the revulsion of needing Crane and falling victim to his whims still fresh. "'Cause I wanted to help you," Nick replied, eyes mere slits trying to face the prospect of being nearly flat on his back once again, held prisoner by his injury.

"Wanting to help a friend is a funny thing, Nick." Grissom's neutral voice commented. "For instance, I knew you wanted that glass of water and that it was impossible for you to get it. My choices were to piss you off again by getting up and handing it to you, or letting you keep your pride but fail at it, while hurting yourself in the process."

Nick pried one eye open, his back still feeling like someone took a fiery rod to it. His supervisor looked at him with what seemed a profound sadness.

"My choice to make, Gris," Nick replied.

"It's all about point of view. And that's something I did learn," Grissom stated.

Nick fell silent letting his troubled mind evaluate what had been said and unsaid at the same time. He kept drifting back towards scattered visions of Lake Mead and the calm it evoked. Apparently it had been enough talk as his supervisor adjusted in the hard plastic chair, the pages of a magazine being turned filling in for the rest of any conversation.

The constant sounds of pages and paper for some reason made him uncomfortable; his eyes drifted upwards at the ceiling, every panel of which had been memorized by now. The lyrics from the Johnny Cash song he'd been unable to sing after being dropped into a new torture chamber a melody in his head. Time crept by, the television that could only get two good channels turned off and stored over his bed.

Every thing was silent... unmoving.

A nurse entered the room right on time. A vitals check, scribbles into a chart at his outputs. "The lunch tray will be coming by. I know that creamed soup and pudding has been added. Do you have a preferred flavor?"

It was hard to get excited about but he gave it his all. "I like chocolate," he replied.

The nurse wrote his choice down. "Anything else I can get for you?"

Nick was already forming the words 'no thank you', when his ears reminded him of the deafening sounds that seemed to only magnify his growing tension. "Um... yeah," he hesitated.

The young caregiver smiled at him. "Whatcha need, sweetie?"

Nick shifted for a moment and didn't allow his eyes to roam anymore or to notice that his supervisor must have been equally curious. "Well, I heard that... um, it was possible I could get something to help me relax."

"I'll go let your doctor know that you requested a sedative. I think he left standing orders for it. But lemme check up on that," She explained a bit too cheerily before moving towards the bed to lower his position to a degree more suitable for his recovery.

Nick looked at the clock knowing he had another two hours before he got the next dose of morphine. His gaze drifted towards his boss who merely nodded and went back to his reading.

He could have done without the low whistles or the raised eyebrows.

* * *

Normally his cheeks wouldn't blush at such attention, though there was just something about sitting partially up in bed, missing your fashionable hospital gown and going commando under your flimsy bed sheets. Especially when two of your close friends, not to mention female colleagues, were practically ogling.

"Nice outfit, Nicky." Catherine snickered, her face beaming with all sorts of amusement.

Sara's cheeks had to be almost as red as his as she giggled, which was a sound rarely heard. "Um, you got the nurse too excited to dry you off?"

"Laugh it up," he drawled, knowing he was still sort of fresh from his sponge bath, a thing he hated and made each nurse who had given him one since his arrival tease him about his modesty. He swore they took their time.

Catherine and Sara wore matching mischievous expressions which only prompted him to cross his arms defiantly, despite the IV in the left one.

"She claimed she left the clean one behind and then one of the patients down the hall got into some trouble and I've been sort of hanging out ever since." Nick bit his lip as soon as the words were out and both women burst into laughter again. Nick rolled his eyes.

"Its not like we've haven't seen you without your shirt on," Sara said, trying to make him feel better and failing miserably at it.

"I thought you weren't supposed to be sitting up till tomorrow,

Catherine added.

Nick fiddled with his sheets. "Betty let me sit up just a little while ago, although if Nurse Attila the Hun found out, I'd be in deep trouble," he mumbled.

"And how long are you supposed to be sitting up," Catherine prodded.

Nick knew he was going to lose and grabbed the remote to the bed, glaring. "She told me for a couple of minutes." He pressed the device before the mother hen CSI could say anything else.

"Who's Betty?" Sara inquired, taking a seat in the lone chair.

Nick felt the soreness abate when he restored the elevated bed to a more even keel. His back had become so stiff during the morning hours and just couldn't take being so horizontal, even with the added sedative to his system. His physician wanted to start weaning him from the higher dosages of morphine since he might be returning home in two days. The effects of the smaller amounts of pain medication had been more pronounced then he would have liked.

Once back to his 'beloved' familiar place in bed, he looked at his co-worker. "Betty is the one who treats me like I'm an adult", he defended.

Catherine rolled her eyes. "She's just giving you what you want so she can seduce you later."

"Yeah. Maybe that male nurse, Eduardo, should give you your next sponge bath; that way we don't have to worry about you being taken advantage of," Sara joked.

Nick huffed even more just adding to their amusement.

"Grissom wanted you to know he'll stop by later. He had to go back to the prison to give a more detailed statement about Leon Stoyanov's death," Catherine explained, bringing the light-hearted mood down to a more sobering one.

Nick got a faraway look in his eye at the Russian's name. He knew no one would blame him for reacting that way; then again he was his worst critic when it came to facing ordeals. "Nigel rounded up a murderous posse to take him down. Blunt force trauma, right?"

Sara wiggled in her chair a bit. "Yeah. Cause of death was loss of blood from his injuries. They can't identify who was involved but the prison plans on charging Crane with the act."

Nick looked up sharply at that tidbit of news. "What?"

Catherine shrugged. "They're not sure of the charges, but they want to pin some of the deaths on someone. Nigel assaulted several people..."

"Out of self-defense," Nick added.

Both women looked at him askance, Sara the first to speak up. "They did find the four inmates who attacked you and beat up the prison guard. They're all facing multiple assault and attempted murder charges."

Nick simply nodded. "Franco's been by to visit a couple times while he recovered."

"He was released the other day, right? Broken ribs, arm, concussion and lacerated spleen," Catherine reported, recalling the man's injuries.

Nick kept to a quiet, "Yeah." The CSI didn't mention the guard's offer to meet him at the prison after both their rehabilitations for some sort of appointment with one of the doctors. The guard understood his hesitancy at having anything to do with any other staff member at the place. The man's phone number and card was now somewhere with the rest of Nick's belongings.

"Hey."

Sara's voice brought him out of his reverie. "Just two more days and you're out of this place."

Nick sighed. "Yeah, then another two to three weeks at home."

"At least you're going home, Nicky," Catherine added, not wanting the younger man to forget the severity of his injury.

Nick nodded and gave a faint smile. "I've just got cabin fever and I'm not even out of here yet."

Deep down inside he also knew that it was the extreme fluctuations in his emotions that led him to this hospital room. Feelings and tempers and a loss of control over these had been increasing and becoming more unpredictable. Warrick had dropped off his laptop the other day, and he'd spent some of his time, when he was able to focus in between doses of drugs, in researching his erratic mood problems. It was ironic, after digging into so many histories of people that he had judged, to be spotting things in himself that he had long denied.

His ruminations were disrupted when Betty, his nurse, came bounding in, full of apologies. "I'm so sorry, Nick. Mr. Johnson down the hall coded and then Mrs. Hitchcock started to react to her change in medication and..."

Nick held up his hand. "It's all right. I've been entertaining my friends."

The young nurse felt the collective glare from the two criminalists.

"Um, so I have a new hospital gown for you. And I can help you get into it."

Catherine arched an eyebrow and gave Nick a smirk. He quickly backpedaled, feeling that familiar hue rising to his cheeks. "I think I can manage."

"You're still not supposed to stand up, Nick. I can help you get mobile enough to tie a new one on," the nurse began to protest.

"Well, 'Nick'," Catherine teased, emphasizing the use of his first name as casually as the perky caregiver had. "We'll leave you alone, unless you would like one of us to help instead?"

He gave her a dirty look. "That's fine."

The women began to leave to give the Texan some privacy when Sara stopped in her tracks right before she left his room. "Oh, by the way, Grissom wanted me to tell you that Joseph Brighten has recovered from the Levodopa that had affected his system."

Nick stared at her, stopping the nurse from pulling at the curtains to

cut off the show. "Wait... Sara?"

She turned to look at him.

"Did Grissom say that he's back to normal now? That he's talking?"

Sara seemed to study his face and gave him a warm smile. "I think that's what he was referring to. Yes."

Nick nodded. "Tell Grissom I got his message," he replied knowing exactly what his supervisor would construe from his reply.

Sara's face reflected that she knew that there was some sort of silent communication going on, but took it in stride.

Nick knew if they had to revert to hidden messaging then it was at least a step forward from the complete lack of any meaningful exchanges over the past few months. Nick turned to face the nurse and began to blush again.

* * *

Notes at my bio 


	23. Chapter 23

He loitered on the front steps for a bit, eyes hidden by a new set of designer shades. Nick chewed on a fresh stick of gum just observing the comings and goings of everyday folk whose lives were touched by mental illness. He took the opportunity in stalling to stroll around the courtyard as he tried to keep his back nimble. He wasn't allowed to do anything strenuous; no running, lifting, bending or exercise. For someone who took pride in staying active it was a damning sentence.

Nick stonewalled until he heard a lightly accented voice mock him.

"Hey, Stokes. You gonna just window shop or come inside?"

The CSI grinned slightly as Franco strutted down the concrete steps. The man's alarmingly bright purple shirt made him thankful for his new purchase for his eyes. The fact that the cast on his arm could change colors to match the silk garment made him wince at the time spent on picking out clothes. Nick still held his hand out as if the glaring rays of the sun were too much. "Um, dude, you might want to put a warning label on that snazzy get-up."

Nick laughed while the prison guard turned around on an imaginary catwalk, shooting his cuffs. "What, no words for my dope pants, man? Spent a bill alone on these pimp threads," the man chuckled.

Nick shook his head. The black pants seemed to glitter under the light, but it was the odd silver belt buckle in the shape of a pair of dice, way beyond anything he'd seen in Texas that caught his eyes. "You trying to win an award for most outrageous outfit?"

Franco snorted. "You're just jealous, man." He pointed at Nick's T-shirt and jeans. "The whole black on black thing is kind of LA to me. What, you a rock star profiling with the new buzz cut? Dug that long hair. Mine always ends up too curly when it grows out like yours was."

Nick shrugged good-naturedly. "Time for a change."

"Someone drive you here?" the Latino inquired.

"Nope," he replied, and waited for a lecture. Operating a vehicle wasn't a physical activity, although Lord knew that he was weak as a kitten most days. He couldn't even clean his own house without feeling worn to the bone with his back muscles shredded.

The prison guard looked at him, no judgments, and no handy-dandy set of advice.

"You ready to do this thing, Mr. CSI?"

Nick looked past him, but nodded. It was sad knowing he felt more comfortable with a semi-stranger, but then again the Latino was easy going. Franco took the time to visit and they kept each other company in the hospital. This wannabe pimp though carried no baggage and that lightweight feeling was just what he needed. The bruises had faded against the man's darker complexion, but they shared a similar set of mental pain.

"Yeah, Man." He cleared his throat unnecessarily and followed the younger man back into Hell. This time though, with a much more informed tour guide.

* * *

The third floor contained general population, a full-fledged library, workout room, and a center to mingle with other inmates. The therapy rooms and countless offices were all located on the north wing, the nexus of the ward, where counseling and interactions took place.

Psychiatrists' offices no matter where though still seemed the same. Maybe they all ordered from the same catalog or had some secret order in which every room had to be arranged. Nick scanned the bookshelves with some interest, noting every shrink journal in the known universe. Oddly enough, this room didn't belong to one particular doctor; it was just a central room like the half a dozen along the hallways used for the psychiatrists and their patients.

Franco had gone to his own required meeting, while he lounged around getting a bit anxious. This wasn't an enforced session; in fact he wasn't here for any sort of treatment. No, the department shrink had him scribbled in her date book before he was allowed to return to work. That was still two weeks away and with lab duty at that.

He heard the door swing open and Dr. Bale entered the room, just before Joey Brighten followed behind him. A guard looked in on them and took his post outside the door when the kindly physician closed it. The African-American doctor gestured for the inmate to take a seat in one of the comfy over-stuffed chairs and then looked at Nick indicating he should do the same.

Nick raised his eyebrows and then dawning on him that there was a matching one behind him, sat down easing his back against the large cushion.

Joseph looked at the criminalist; still the most average looking guy, someone to get lost in the crowd. The man crossed his legs and tapped his fingers on his knees. "I was told you wanted to speak to me. As I understand it, I've been cleared of any wrong doing or crime."

Nick found the ends of his mouth curling in a surprised grin. Joey's voice was soft but firm. No accent, polished punctuation, intelligent vocabulary. It wasn't exactly what he was expecting.

The man tugged at the collar of his standard issue jumpsuit. "Something bothering you, Mr. Stokes?"

Nick realized he was being a tad bit rude and ducked his head as he gave an embarrassed laugh before he looked up. "No, sir. I...well this is our third meeting and the first time I've heard you talk."

The man scratched at his strands of brown hair, bangs falling over his forehead. "I promise I don't speak in tongues or riddles."

"Of course not." Nick stammered just slightly, not wanting to offend the inmate.

"Or I could. Who knows what some of the new medications can do. I could learn a new language and never know about it with some of the pills I've taken," he stated, voice even.

Nick adjusted in his seat, trying to change positions before muscles stiffened on him.

"It was a joke," Joseph said leaning forward.

Nick allowed a larger grin, then really laughed. "Of course." He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

The inmate shrugged. "I've had tougher audiences."

"I bet you have." The small talk was a bit of a strain; Joseph Brighten wasn't the scared field mouse trapped in a farm full of predators, but he was someone glib, a hollowness in his tone, dull, loneliness in his eyes. The man looked ten years older than his true age, slight muscle tone lost, movements that were far from smooth or graceful. He used short sentences and didn't give more information than needed.

Any slight emergence of a personality with an attempt at humor evaporated into thin air. After idle chitchat, Nick took a deep breath and the other man leaned in his chair braced for anything.

"Do you recall anything of the night of the murder, Mr. Brighten?" Nick asked. Of course he could read the man's statement and file on the case that had been closed. No need for this little interview at all. Except for an odd need to finally converse with a man that Nick felt a bit of kinship with.

"As I told the other investigator, it's all very much a blur; something I'd rather not recall."

Nick nodded not really wanting to push things too much, his eyes staring at his hands. "Sometimes starting off with the smallest details can help."

Joseph shook his head. "Nothing."

Nick swallowed, knowing what it was like to try to gather information from someone who didn't want to share. He even knew a little about not wanting to do so himself. "What about sounds?"

The inmate began to chew on a nail, eyes searching the room. "Shouting... screams." He gnawed on a finger and closed his mouth, head still gesturing in a negative.

"If you try to forget… things... things can still sneak up on ya when you don't want them to," Nick offered. He took a deep breath. "Images… voices... in nightmares...even during the day. Then...then you let it slowly take away something from you one piece at a time." Nick looked way his voice thick. "No reason to hold on to it... didn't learn that 'till  
recently."

The fragile prisoner looked at the CSI. "What's the point of trying?"

Nick looked at the man, one set of uneasy eyes to another. "Remember, share, then maybe, after time...it won't hurt so much."

The inmate shook his head and stared at the floor. "I obsessed about my personal tragedy to the point I couldn't think straight. I filled the void with hate and guilt. I don't want to remember what happened the other night... or any night for that matter." The inmate looked up at the CSI. "It's better not to react to emotional things. Then there's nothing left out there to harm you."

Nick frowned, his voice gruffer. "Something inside you still wanted to help. While you were severely affected by the drug, you still tried to defend a helpless man. You attacked Ivan with a chair."

Joseph Brighten chewed on his lips, shaking his head even harder. "No, no. The old me is gone, lost forever." The prisoner wrapped his arms around his body. "I had a real life once. A long time ago." Joseph looked Nick right in the eye. "I don't recognize myself in the mirror, don't know that stranger reflected back. Then some days I just let that stranger take over and I take a little walk inside my head, not to be bothered for a while."

Nick didn't feel pity very often, but thought Joseph Brighten might crumble in his chair, the air about him so fragile… so breakable. A puff of wind could simply blow his body and mind away. He was left speechless, unsure what words could help.

Joseph wiggled in his seat, glancing at the time. "Doc said all I had to do was meet you." He looked at the physician. "Can I go now?"

Dr. Bale nodded, his voice soft. "Of course, Joey."

The inmate stood up and Nick got to his feet a tad more slowly, hiding a wince. The inmate brushed back his wispy hair. "I guess the only good thing to come from this is that I get a new bunkmate."

Nick glanced at the physician who seemed to silently tell him to wait. "Maybe you'll get someone who isn't as talkative."

Joseph chuckled. "Yeah, right. That man never spoke; really unnerving thing if you ask me. All he did all day was clean the floors and stare at people from afar. Guy creeped me out. He read a lot though. Always up early enough to read the newspaper, or be in the common area to watch the news. Loved the metro section."

Nick stood there for a moment. "Hope you do better, Mr. Brighten."

The inmate fiddled with his hands. "Every day is exactly the same, Mr. Stokes."

The criminalist watched the man get escorted out. Dr. Bale glanced at his watch. "I had hoped to speak to you about that possible next appointment."

Nick rubbed at the growing spasm in his back muscles. "Maybe later, Doc."

Dr. Bale peered at the CSI through his glasses. "Why? Do you think if you just forget about it, then it'll go away?"

Nick allowed a faint smile, feeling slightly played. "How about next week? I can only handle so much of this place."

The physician smiled. "I'll make the arrangements."

* * *

The air filled with mesquite and spices, waft after waft of seasonings and the crackle of heated charcoal. Nick balanced a plate while deftly flipping the burger onto a toasted bun with a giddy smile. He handed the plate to Catherine who accepted it with a cheeky grin.

"Might make you play grill master more often," she said winking.

Nick smiled a genuine grin, twirling the spatula in one hand, rubbing his sweaty forehead with his left wrist. Then smearing grease on his white chef's apron. He pointed his flipper at Warrick who only openly mocked him for his fashionable attire.

"Don't you start on me, Bro," he warned even if it was obvious he was kidding.

"I don't need one of them things. I'm too impeccable," Warrick jibed.

Nick tried his best to be offended. "Well, if that's the case you get to take over... I'm supposed to take it easy," he said still grinning.

"Uh huh, still convalescing, hmm?" Warrick said sauntering towards the grill as Nick removed the apron.

Nick threw the garment at his buddy and made his way towards a lawn chair, sinking down carefully. He'd been joking, but then again he still seemed to be a walking set of aches and pain.

"How you take it?" Warrick asked donning the barbecue apron.

"Medium rare," he said, offended that his best friend even had to ask.

"Comin' up," the man replied already adding more fluid to the searing fire.

Sara wandered over, her plate full of cooked vegetables from a separate grill, and plopped herself down next to her co-worker. She appraised him with her eyes not hiding her assessing way.

"You seem loads better." She leaned closer. "You need to take a break inside?"

Nick slouched into the uncomfortable chair. "Nah. Kind of used to feeling like I ran a marathon after the simplest things. I'll go to bed early tonight after a round with my friend the heating pad."

Sara adjusted her hair, messing with her sunglasses perched atop her head. "I'm glad you came to this. The last one...well, it got postponed."

Nick tested his back, turning slightly to stretch. "Yeah… the one at Catherine's. Wasn't planning on goin' to it."

Sara studied him. "And now?'

"Now... Now I'm not sitting in my house in the dark." He shrugged not wanting to make too big a deal about the admission.

She grabbed his hand. "Good to hear you found your way out of that."

"I'm still tryin."

"You're not alone in the dark any more. You never were." Without adding anything else Sara got up to talk to Greg who began challenging for rights over the cooking.

Oddly enough, he hadn't known that. Never felt Sara's words until very recently.

"How's the arm?"

Nick looked to his left never noticing Grissom's approach. The man had kept to the sidelines for the most part. He looked down at his forearm, covered by a long sleeve knit shirt. "Better. Shouldn't leave much of a scar."

The older man was hard to read behind his dark sunglasses. "That's good."

"And your knee? You seem to be movin' around all right," Nick observed.

Grissom took a seat in Sara's vacated chair. "Off the crutches. Just badly twisted ligaments. Not much pain now. Back at work, just not so much in the field until this week."

"About that..." he said letting his question drift.

"Not until you get a clean bill of health," the supervisor replied.

Nick knew that there was more than one kind, but sort of expected it. Knew deep down that it was needed to re-enter the field.

They sat in silence, both submerged in the camaraderie around them; Catherine whispering in Sara's ear, Warrick and Greg trading barbs.

"You plan on seeing him again."

Nick didn't take his eyes off of Greg and Warrick now getting into verbal combativeness, the other criminalist watching in amusement. "Yeah."

Nick waited for it.

"If you want. I can take you there, that way... well, if you want to get away afterwards you don't have to worry about it."

He was surprised to say the least.

Nick played with the ring on his finger, thinking, then, as he spun the silver around and around he knew that this wasn't the time to study, to predict. He went with his gut…a natural thing he'd long forgotten.

"Okay."

Grissom didn't really react, just nodded. "Let me know when."

"Sure will," he replied, trying to get back with the flow. Learning to let his instincts go to work again.

His boss got up from his seat to request his food order and Nick allowed his body to relax, to take a load off for once.

* * *

"I knew you would come see me again."

Nigel Crane wasn't a scary looking man. He was thin, with a little pudge hidden by his jumpsuit, eyesight that was bad without corrective lens and hair that had begun thinning out. He slouched in his chair and clasped his hands together to keep them from fiddling with anxious energy.

It was his voice. Crane's matter-of-fact tone, laced with venom, certainty, and pride.

Nick sat across the man, a wide oak table separating them, this time in an office, and not a detention interview room. Dr. Bale was in a chair to right of the inmate, to take notes, offer a reasonable voice when necessary, but his place was as observer.

The atmosphere was supposed to be more casual, it was far from it.

"You wanted to thank me properly," Nigel went on, even if Nick had not said a word.

"You're right." Nick finally spoke. "If it wasn't for you, then we might not have made it out in one piece."

Nigel straightened in his chair. "Of course. You needed me." He pushed the glasses back up from where they slid down. "I showed you. Demonstrated what you've been missing, what you misunderstood this whole time."

Nick leaned back against the relentlessly hard plastic, jaw moving back and forth, working on another piece of gum. "I've been confused about a lot of things lately. But not about you, Nigel."

The inmate wiggled around at the tone of the criminalist. "I don't understand."

"We don't have a relationship. We're not friends, or pals. The only things you know about me are the ones you stole with your little cameras." Nick didn't know where the calmness of his voice was coming from, but everything rolled off his tongue with such ease.

Nigel on the other hand looked like a fish out of water gasping for words. "No, no no no no." It seemed his vocabulary shrunk by a mile. He wrapped his hands together, face scrunching up. "You're wrong, Nick."

"Really?" Nick retorted, still fairly collected, while Crane continued to fidget.

"I know what your favorite music is- country and classic rock. That you obsess over birds, your favorites are eagles. You love Labrador Retrievers. I know what you like to do in your time off," he kept countering, voice rising in defensiveness.

Nick stole a glance at the physician who must have understood that his patient would get a bit out of sorts. The CSI placed his hands on the table. "Why?"

Nigel stopped mumbling under his breath, still listing facts about Nick's life before he stopped. "Why what?"

Nick gestured with both palms opened. "Do you know why those things are my favorites? Or why I like the things that I do?"

Nigel huffed again, jockeying for answers that he didn't know. His face contorted as he mouthed words, tiny little sneers under his breath.

The Texan's eyes gleamed for once, robust and dark. "Why's the hard part isn't it?" It was Nick's turn to crank up the attitude. "It's easy to watch. To be cast as a spectator."

That got Nigel's attention, eyes darting rapidly back and forth.

"A glorified fan," Nick stated almost rocking back on his chair.

Nigel Crane was silent, his mouth shut up for once. Nick enjoyed the victory for just a moment. Then leaned on his arms that rested on the table. "Learning why, that's the real part of being someone's friend. In fact, half the time, friends have it all wrong."

The ex-stalker glared at him.

Nick laughed softly, making connections he never knew were right there. "It's trying to figure it out that's half of it." Nick gestured again. "It's a learning experience that we can screw up, cause misunderstandings, but that's the point. Friends mess up. They get things wrong, fight with each other, and are there during the worst moments."

Nick rubbed at his sore arm, but his eyes bored into the little man. "It's about tryin' and getting it wrong. It's the effort, the care involved in screwing up and trying to fix it. In being there in thick and thin, then shelving things when it all goes to hell."

The criminalist leaned back; the ache along his back grew, but so did his adrenaline. "You're the school yard bully who acts out in anger, because you want so badly something you simply can't understand."

Nigel sat there and fumed, hands curled tightly, but his body was still. An evil mix of extreme command and anger. Then his face clouded over and relaxed within seconds. "It would seem you've been bullied too much by your boss. The experience with big bad Ivan was too much for your fragile world view."

The inmate snorted. "I think it's time to face the fact that you're not capable of handling stressful situations any more, Nick. You're not designed for that. So traumatized by recent events to let your mind be so easily dominated." Nigel looked over at his physician. "I think maybe you should talk to him. He seems to have been played. Maybe his time in the box last summer did more damage than anyone realized. And I thought the police took care of their own."

Nick didn't give in to the obvious jabs. Instead he smiled, knowing that he had won.

Finally.

Maybe Nigel knew it too, deep inside.

"I hope one day you get better, Nigel. Then maybe you'll realize how little authority you ever had." Nick looked at Dr. Bale who studied him thoughtfully, the prisoner off on another one of his babbling fits.

"Should I set up another appointment?" the physician inquired.

"No, sir. I think this has been enough," Nick said getting up.

Dr. Bale nodded. "What about---"

Nick held up his hand cutting the man off. "I already have the ball rolling with another physician. One that's a bit more familiar with my past."

The psychiatrist stood up. "I'm glad you're seeking help with someone."

Nick cocked his head. "Yeah. One step at a time I guess."

He took one final look at his ex-tormentor; the inmate had lost himself in a diatribe, no longer paying him much attention. _Wrestle with your own demons, Nigel,_he thought.

Nick nodded at the physician and let himself out, closing a chapter on one part of his life that he had the chance to deal with on his terms.

Nick wandered into the lobby, not so much in a daze but in sheer wonderment at what had transpired. Feet took him the familiar route and he found himself in the middle of the lobby, people passing him by while he remained caught in his own little moment. He dug fingers into a now beaten track along his spine settling in a small indention. An imagined set of scars. He massaged there for a moment, working out kinks and staring at the floor.

"You get the answers you sought?"

Grissom's voice made him still his actions. He pondered the question, grateful it wasn't one of a small handful that his boss had memorized. Nick gave him a slight but genuine smile. "Most of them, yeah."

The supervisor looked at him, hands stuffed into his pants pockets, eyeglasses that reflected the lights about them. He tilted his head, moving his body towards the door. "Want to blow this Popsicle stand?"

Nick looked at him like he had grown two heads.

Gil Grissom smiled then shrugged.

Both men exited the Reynolds Institute, neither of them looking back. They reached the supervisor's ride. "Where do you want to go?"

Nick didn't know really; the first location that popped in his head he blurted out. "Lake Mead."

Grissom looked at him a bit oddly. "You up for that kind of hiking?"

The younger criminalist laughed, knowing things were not that easy. What had he been thinking? "Um, actually home sounds good."

His supervisor stared at the sky, eyes taking in the early afternoon. "How about the park?'

Nick looked down at the pavement, a feeling of deja vu hitting him. Not caring what it meant he just went with that tiny tingle instead of the old tired, but quieter voice in his head. "Sure. Why not."

Grissom went to the driver side and Nick opened his own car door. His instincts told him to look back at the looming building. Instead he climbed into the seat, hit the radio dial before his boss, and relaxed against the more comfortable seat and allowed his mind to roam free for once. Unburdened, and a bit more clear-headed.

The End.

* * *

I wanted to thank everyone who took the time to read and let me knew their thoughts. Most of the elements of this story had been circulating in my head when I was writing "Dark Days", but held off until all the pieces fell together. When "Daddy's Little Girl" aired, it evoked strong reactions and enough anger to find that one theme to tie everything together. This was a huge challenge for me, creatively, and I'm glad that for the most part everything I wanted to try and explore worked out.

I want to thank Beth, my Beta, for who constant support and words of encouragement. There when I wasn't quite sure about a section. To prod me here and there, for her casual and not so casual suggestions. You're the best!

Special thanks to Amy for all of her medical expertise. For answering all my countless questions via IM, or crazy late night e-mails. Your help aided in my need for a drug culprit for our unstable suspects. Your guidance made all the aspects of Nick's injury gain the realism that I really wanted.

Next Up, after a couple one shots. Back with my partner in crime Beth for another co-authored piece. Plot's pretty cool, not act/adv, but def, something not explored before. Um..Nick-Centric...Team fic this time around.


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